I 


tihvavy  of  trhe  Cheolcjicd  ^tmimvy 

PRINCETON  •  NEW  JERSEY 
PRESENTED  BY 

Rufus  K.    LeFevre 
BKR&7  5 


1 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2009  with  funding  from 

Princeton  Theological  Seminary  Library 


http://www.archive.org/details/lightofotherdaysOOsmit 


FEB  11  1953 


THE 


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PASSING  UNDER  THE  ROD, 


ELDER  A.  J.  SMITH. 


Edited  by  REV.  J.  P.  WATSON. 


DAYTON,  OHIO 

United  Brethren  Publishing  House, 

1878. 


Entered  according  to  act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1878, 

BY  ELDER    A.  J.  SMITH, 

In  the  office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington,  D.  C. 


TO  MY  MOTHER, 

THAN   WHOM   IN   REAL   WORTH 

THE   WORLD   HATH   NEVER   SEEN 

A  BETTER,   A   DEARER,    NOR   A   TRUER  MOTHER, 

IS  THI3  HUMBLE  STORY  OP  A   LIFE 

GRATEFULLY  DEDICATED, 

A3   A   SIMPLE   TOKEN   OF 
WARMEST    AND   MOST    MERITED    LOVE, 

BT  HEB  SOir, 

THE  AUTHOR. 


PREFACE. 


The  thought  of  writing  a  book  wherein  should  be  told  the  simple 
story  of  my  unimportant  life  has  but  recently  suggested  itself. 
Truly  the  motive  has  not  been  ambition,  nor  the  end  sought 
the  selfish  one  of  fame.  I  care  not  how  soon  my  humble  name 
may  perish,  if  from  its  ashes  there  would  earlier  spring  a  wreath 
of  glory  for  my  Master's  name. 

If  the  world  asks  an  apology  for  my  temerity,  I  give  it  in  the 
simple  wish  to  inspire  some  drooping,  fainting  soul  with  fresher 
life  by  the  example  of  my  own.  If  I  have  magnified  my  follies, 
it  is  that  the  forbearance  and  mercies  of  my  Lord  may  appear, 
and  if  my  blessings,  only  that  the  goodness  of  the  Father  may 
be  seen. 

As  Milton's  daughter  took  the  story  of  "Paradise  Lost"  from 
the  lips  of  her  blind  and  sainted  father,  so  has  my  story  been  pa- 
tiently sketched  from  my  lips  by  my  generous  friend  and  brother, 
Rev.  J.  P.  Watson,  whom  I  gratefully  present  to  the  reader  as 
the  editor  of  this  unvarnished  work.  May  the  reader  find  here 
a  fountain  that  shall  yield  one  cooling,  refreshing  draught  at  least, 
and  a  table  on  which  a  few  crumbs  of  nourishing  bread  shall  be 
found.  Indeed,  that  at  least  a  single  soul  shall  find  peace  in  be- 
lieving and  sweet  rest  in  Christ  from  its  perusal  I  humbly  ask  as 
a  boon  from  Heaven.  This  much,  and  the  author's  toil,  hath 
ample  compensation. 

Though  in  blindness  I  have  sown  these  humble  seeds,  yet  with 
clearest  vision  shall  I  wield  the  sickle  in  the  harvest  morn.  May 
you  and  I  be  reapers  with  the  angel8. 

A.  J.  S. 

Pleasant  Hill,  Ohio,  October,  1876. 


CONTENTS. 


Dedication 3 

Preface 5 

CHAPTER  I. 

My  grandparents  and  their  home 9 

CHAPTER  II. 

My  grandfather's  family 14 

CHAPTER  III. 

The  death  of  my  grandparents 16 

CHAPTER  IV. 

My  birth 19 

CHAPTER  V. 

My  father  a  merchant  and  a  Christian  21 

CHAPTER  VI. 

Early  impressions;  or,  childhood  memories 25 

CHAPTER  VII. 

My  school-life  begins Jl 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

The  new  home 6i 

CHAPTER  IX. 

The  cradle  and  the  grave 38 

CHAPTER  X. 

A  peculiar  people 43 

CHAPTER  Xr. 

The  model  teacher 49 

CHAPTER  XII. 

Counteracting  influences 53 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

A  new  brother  and  a  new  home 57 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

Almost  persuaded. 63 

CHAPTER  XV. 

City  company 70 

CHAPTER  XVI, 

Exciting  news 74 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

More  recruits  for  the  war 81 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 

Sympathy  and  care  for  the  soldier 88 

CHAPTER  XIX. 
A  soldier  at  last 92 


TIU.  COKTEKTS- 

CHAPTER  XX. 

Off  to  the  front « ~ - 100 

CHAPTER  XXI. 

Camp  life . - 104 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

Marching  to  the  battle-field -...110 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 

Northward  and  homeward 120 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 

Hospital  life  and  leave  of  the  army 125 

CHAPTER  XXV. 

Wild  adventures 132 

CHAPTER  XXVI. 

A  home  on  the  deep _ 143 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 

Life  on  the  sea 159 

CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

Over  the  line  and  into  port 174 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 

Friends  in  a  strange  land 186 

CHAPTER  XXX. 

The  homeward  voyage 199 

CHAPTER  XXXI. 

Home  again 215 

CHAPTER  XXXII. 

Among  the  blind 229 

CHAPTER  XXXIII. 
Groping  for  the  light 246 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. 
Blind  at  last 255 

CHAPTER  XXXV. 
Back  to  the  institution 264 

CHAPTER  XXXVI. 
Approaching  the  valley 271 

CHAPTER  XXXVII. 
Salvation 285 

CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 
Among  the  Methodists 302 

CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

On  the  road  and  in  the  field 316 

CHAPTER  XL. 

Among  the  Baptists 326 

CHAPTER  XLI.' 

Westward 334 

CHAPTER  XLII. 

Marriage,  ordination,  home  in  the  West 342 

CHAPTER  XLIII. 
Farewell  reflections 346 


CHAPTER  I. 

MY  GRANDPARENTS  AND  THEIR  HOME. 

In  the  eastern  part  of  the  State  of  Pennsylvania, 
to  the  northward  of  its  great  city — the  nation's 
Centennial  center  and  birth-place — a  distance  of 
forty  miles,  and  to  the  westward  of  the  bold,  blutfy 
Delaware  some  four  miles,  in  one  of  the  most  ro- 
mantic and  beautiful  sections  of  the  state,  stood 
the  old-fashioned  farm-house  of  Esquire  Smith, 
my  honored  grandfather.  It  was,  as  I  recollect,  a 
stately  stone  mansion,  and  roomy  enough  for  the 
children  of  a  generation.  A  flood  of  light  il- 
lumed the  interior  through  a  long,  encircling  row 
of  windows,  and  from  above  by  several  dormer- 
windows,  as  if  the  good  old  man  would  catch  the 
first  light  from  heaven  and  have  a  nearer  view  of 
the  worlds  above. 

Its  roominess  entitled  the  mansion  to  be  called 
a  hospitable  home,  and  served  somewhat  to  iUus- 
trate  this  most  excellent  quality  of  the  owner's 
heart.  While  there  was  ample  room  within,  there 
was  also  plenty  of  elbow-room  without,  both  in 


10  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER    DATS. 

front  and  rear.  It  did  not,  like  so  many  and  too 
man}'  modern  homes  -where  comfort  and  conven- 
ience are  claimed  to  he  a  cliicf  aim  and  end,  crowd 
the  very  street;  hut,  with  a  h\rge,  open,  and  taste- 
ful lawn  in  front,  it  presented  to  all  the  appearance 
of  comfort,  libert}^,  and  generosity.  The  man  who 
will  crowd  himself  will  be  niggardly  toward  oth- 
ers; and  this  pinching  habit  is  too  often  suffered 
about  our  homes.  The  worshipful  heart  of  my 
grandsire  typified  its  vigorous  hold  on  the  divine 
hand  by  the  towering  reach  heavenward  of  the 
giant  poplars  to  the  south  of  his  home.  AVhile 
their  heads  reached  to  a  dizzy  hight,  as  if  they 
would  be  crowned  by  down-reaching  hands  from 
on  high,  their  strong,  broad  arms  seemed  as  if  anx- 
ious to  embrace  the  blessed  brotherhood  of  earth, 
and  lift  their  souls  above. 

The  surrounding  scenery,  as  fashioned  by  Na- 
ture's artistic  hand,  was  beautiful  beyond  descrip- 
tion, while  with  the  warble  of  feathered  songsters 
old  Delaware  mingled  the  music  of  its  roar,  as  if 
offering  praise  to  its  Creator.  These  beautiful  sur- 
roundings had  their  crown  from  God's  own  hand 
in  the  majestic  Haycock  Mountains,  a  few  miles  to 
the  west.  These,  as  if  to  add  new  glory  to  the 
scene,  to  speak  anew  their  Maker's  praise,  and  bring 
a  benediction  upon  the  voice  of  song  ere  the  night- 
ly shades  should  deepen,  would  reflect  the  golden 


MY    GRANDPARENTS.  11 

rays  of  the  king  of  dying  day  as  he  bowed  his 
crowned  head  into  the  mystic  deeps  beyond. 

There  was  a  voice  of  inspiration  in  this  vision ; 
and  it  failed  not  to  awaken  a  spirit  of  grateful  in- 
spiration in  the  heart  of  William  Smith.  He  would 
not  detract  from,  but  add  to  the  beauty  and  grand- 
eur of  the  whole  by  adding  new  charms  to  Nature's 
work.  The  wild  beauty  he  tamed,  and  softened 
with  his  touch  the  general  grandeur  of  the  Maker's 
works.  Adam,  though  in  the  garden,  was  ap- 
pointed to  dress  and  cultivate  it;  and  so  here  a 
worthy  son  would  aid  I^ature  in  her  ettbrts  at  dis- 
play, and  bring  more  sunlight  upon  the  scenes  of 
native  beauty. 

My  grandfather  was  a  large,  Vigorous  man,  with 
stalwart  frame,  massive  head,  and  shaggy  locks,  but 
with  a  countenance  like  an  open  window  for  the 
soul  within.  Some  souls  seem  barred  behind  not 
grates  alone,  but  cold,  rugged  shutters,  as  if  they 
would  receive  no  outward  light  and  suffer  no  ray 
to  beam  forth  from  the  throne  within.  The  tenant 
of  the  earthl}'  tabernacle,  like  the  inmate  of  a 
dwelling,  should  not  seek  to  hide  himself  from  the 
eye  of  the  world;  but,  standing  at  the  window,  as 
it  were,  the  soul  should  look  forth  and  greet  the 
brotherhood  of  life.  An  open  countenance  is  a 
grand  possession ;  and  if  nature  has  shaded  it  the 
soul  should,  by  cultivation,  unlock  and  unbolt  its 


12  THE   LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

bars  and  throw  open  its  shutters.  Let  the  sun- 
light of  nature  in,  and  that  of  humanity  and  love 
will  bloom  out. 

But  with  "Wm.  Smith  the  beaming  face  was  not 
alone.  It  was  not  enough  with  him  that  beams 
of  sunshine  should  gladden  the  paths  of  others. 
The  willing,  generous  hand  was  full  of  benefac- 
tions to  the  worthy.  He  neither  passed  worth  nor 
want  without  recognition  for  the  one  and  aid  for 
the  other.  His  personal  worth  was  witnessed  by 
his  neighbors  in  the  honors  with  which  they  crown- 
ed him.  For  thirty  or  more  years  he  dispensed 
justice  with  an  impartial  heart,  and  defended  the 
honor  of  the  law  of  the  land.  He  delighted,  as  a 
peace-maker,  to  ptill  down  those  barriers  that  sep- 
arated heart  from  heart  and  help  untie  knots  ot 
naughty  dispute. 

Many  youthful  hearts,  however,  Ije  entangled  in 
meshes  from  which  they  could  not  easily  be  dis- 
entangled. The  nuptial  knot  was  a  matter  of 
delight  with  him;  and  few  could  tie  it  better  or 
were  more  popular  in  the  efibrt  of  it.  With  the 
binding  word  he  would  give  the  seal  of  a  cordial 
kiss,  which,  whatever  the  judgment  of  the  bride, 
was  a  feast  to  himself.  He  had  in  the  direction  of 
marriage  set  the  youth  a  goodly  example  by  at  an 
early  age  taking  to  himself  and  his  home  one  of 
the  fair  ones  of  earth. 


MT   GRANDPARENTS.  IS 

Of  Mary  Darrah,  the  chosen  bride  of  my  grand- 
father, I  know  but  little.  She  was,  however,  in 
every  way  worthy  of  a  most  worthy  man.  She 
was  the  daughter  of  a  wealthy  farmer  of  the  neigh- 
borhood, and  was  accounted  both  handsome  and 
hearty.  "With  a  heart  to  love,  she  brought  a  good, 
strong  hand  to  help  the  companion  of  her  choice. 
"With  an  ambition  in  keeping  with  her  natural 
health,  she  shrunk  from  no  toil  that  could  bring 
comfort  to  the  heart  or  ease  to  the  weary  hand  of 
her  husband.  By  mutual  toil  they  earned  their 
home  and  accumulated  their  fortune ;  and  by  the 
blessing  of  a  gracious  Providence  through  long  life 
they  enjoyed  it  together.  The  angel  of  death,  in- 
deed, came  iirst  for  him,  but  she  tarried  only  a  little 
while  on  this  hither  shore.  Soon  they  were  to- 
gether again,  and  forever  one  in  their  home  above. 


14  THJE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 


CHAi'TER  II. 

MY    grandfather's    FAMILY. 

Seven  children  came  of  this  union,  three  of 
^hom  were  boys.  Samuel,  the  (eldest  son,  was  of 
the  Jackson  school  of  politics,  and  gave  his  life 
almost  wholly  to  this  department  of  labor.  His 
triumphant  successes,  perhaps,  kept  full  pace  with 
his  ripening  ambition.  In  the  home  military  serv- 
ice he  rose  to  the  rank  of  general,  while  in  civil 
life,  from  the  seat  of  a  county  judge  he  finally 
came  to  occupy  the  honorable  position  of  congress- 
man from  his  district. 

Robert  was  less  ambitious,  but  honored,  never- 
theless, as  his  father  had  been,  by  home  offices  of 
trust  and  worth. 

William,  my  father,  remained  at  the  old  home- 
stead until  upward  of  forty  years  of  age,  having 
the  general  care  of  the  family  and  superintendence 
of  the  farm-work.  Being  an  excellent  scribe,  he 
finally  obtained  an  official  position  at  the  county 
seat,  where  the  methods  and  habits  of  his  life  be- 
came somewhat  changed.  Here  he  formed  the  ac- 
quaintance of  his  future  wife,  my  mother,  a  Miss 


MY    grandparents'    FAMILY.  15 

Catherine  Martin.  She  was  a  young  lady  of  hum- 
ble parentage,  and  at  a  tender  age  left  her  home 
for  adoption  in  a  farmer's  family,  where  she  re- 
mained until  of  age.  She  then  removed  to  Doyles- 
town,  and  became  an  inmate  of  the  family  of  Rev. 
Dr.  Andrews,  pastor  of  the  Old  School  Presbyterian 
Church.  Of  Dr.  Andrews  we  shall  have  occasion 
to  speak  more  at  length  hereafter.  Here  she  found 
a  good  home,  and  received  the  best  of  religious  in- 
struction. She  soon  entered  the  church  of  Dr.  An- 
drews, and  became  therein  an  active  and  zealous 
worker  for  her  Master. 

Her  iirst  appearance  won  the  esteem  and  ad- 
miration of  my  father,  although  she  was  not  so 
favorably  impressed  at  tirst.  The  acquaintance, 
tiowever,  ripened  into  friendship,  and  finally  into 
mutual  affection.  This  continued  until  1843,  when 
they  united  the  destinies  and  fortunes  of  their 
lives  at  the  marriage  altar.  Now  mated,  they 
must  needs  have  a  home ;  and  being  of  rural  edu- 
cation and  tastes,  they  naturally  turned  from  the 
town.  They  first  removed  to  a  farm  near  Phila- 
delphia, where,  however,  they  were  to  remain  but 
a  short  time.  My  grandfather  taking  ill,  my  fa- 
ther was  called  to  the  old  home  before  the  end  of 
a  year. 


16  THE   LIGUT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE    DEATH    OF   MY    GRANDPARENTS. 

This  sickness  was,  in  the  arrangement  of  Prov- 
idence, to  prove  a  sickness  unto  death.  For  more 
than  sixty  years  William  Smith  had  been  a  citizen 
of  earth,  but  now  a  call  to  the  higher  life  was  to 
be  heard.  The  old  home-mansion  of  earth  was  to 
be  exchanged  for  a  new  and  better  one  iu  the  skies. 
The  whole  life  had  been  one  grand  tendency  toward 
this.  A  pilgrim  and  a  stranger  here,  he  felt  and 
knew  that  his  home  was  in  heaven.  And  now  the 
end  was  reached;  but  the  summons  found  him  not 
unready,  but  waiting.  Like  a  shock  of  corn  fully 
ripe  and  in  its  season,  he  came  down  to  the  grave, 
while  the  spirit,  like  a  buoyant  bird,  winged  its 
way  above.  For  very  many  years  he  had  been  a 
worthy  member  of  the  Presbyterian  Church,  and 
by  blessed  experience  had  learned  to  trust  in  the  arm 
that  could  conquer  every  foe.  Death,  that  wiliest 
and  mightiest  of  all  foes,  was  to  be  conquered  also 
in  its  turn;  and  the  conquest  was  to  be  most  com- 
plete. Personally  he  had  never  before  been  brought 
down  to  Death's  door,  and,  like  many  another, 


MY   GRANDPARENTS*   DEATH.  17 

within  hearing  of  the  whelming  Jordan.  During 
life  he  had  never  had  the  doctor's  care,  nor  even 
taken -a  portion  of  medicine  until  his  final  sickness. 
Yet  the  white  messenger  cast  no  shadow  of  fear 
over  him  as  he  advanced  toward  his  couch,  while 
to  him  the  opening  grave  was  as  the  cradle  to  a 
weary  child.  He  proved  that  the  soul  could  ride 
upon  and  above  the  waters,  as  did  Noah  within  the 
ark.  To  him  death  was  disarmed  of  its  sting  and 
the  grave  of  its  victory.  If  no  other  compensa- 
tion can  come  of  the  Christian's  trust,  and  as  the 
reward  for  the  heart's  consecration  to  Jesus,  than 
merely  hopeful  trust  in  death  and  triumph  in  that 
dreaded  hour,  who  will  say  it  is  not  enough  that 
Christian  labor  has  not  adequate  compensation? 
To  the  sacred  bosom  of  the  church-yard  near  by 
was  given  the  precious  dust  of  the  holy  man.  Old 
neighbors  and  respected  friends  whispered  with 
hushed  tones  and  aching  hearts,  "  The  good  man 
is  dead."  More  rightly  the  sainted  man  was  born 
again — born  into  a  higher  state  and  a  holier  life  ; 
not  dead,  but  gone  before;  alive  for  evermore. 
The  parting  struggle  was  paralyzing  to  the  hither- 
to vigorous  form  of  my  grandmother.  Soon  she, 
too,  began  to  show  unmistakable  signs  of  early 
departure  to  the  bed  of  death  and  the  beautiful 
home  beyond.  She  who  had  lived  so  long  with 
him  could  not  well  live  long  without  him.     The 


18  THE   LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

heart  was  less  joyous,  and  the  ghidsomc  glee  of 
other  days  less  common,  while  evidently  the  hold 
on  life  was  fast  loosening.  A  few  months  only 
elapsed,  a  measure  of  time  less  than  that  of  a  }eai", 
and  the  blessed  twain  were  one  again.  Both  had 
passed  life's  wilderness  under  God's  law,  and  then 
had  crossed  the  Jordan  to  the  Canaan  of  rest. 
The  family  was  now  divided,  and  must  lienceforth 
scatter.  The  father  was  dead,  and  the  maternal 
center  was  gone  forever.  The  old  homestead  must 
pass  from  the  family  hands,  although  the  happy 
scenes  and  sacred  memories  of  early  life  could 
never  be  effaced.  The  sale  transpired  soon  after 
the  last  death,  and  the  proceeds  of  the  home  were 
divided  amousr  the  children. 


MY    BIRTH.  19 


CHAPTER  IV. 

MY   BIRTH. 

My  father  bought  with  his  allowance  a  small 
place  of  sixty  acres,  with  a  hotel  property  thereon, 
which  had  constituted  a  portion  of  my  grandfa- 
ther's estate.  The  hotel  was  now  the  home  of  my 
parents,  ni}^  mother  taking  charge  of  the  house 
and  my  father  the  general  management  of  the  farm. 
The  hotel  was  of  the  old  country  fashion,  and  while 
affording  entertainment  for  travelers  it  also  had  its 
bar  for  the  sale  of  liquors.  Rum,  at  that  time, 
was  almost  the  universal  drink,  and  was  common 
both  to  the  field  and  the  house.  It  was  free  alike  to 
men  and  women,  while  the  children  were  early  al- 
lowed their  portion.  There  were  times  when  my 
mother  had  to  dispense  this  common  beverage,  but 
ever,  and  from  the  first,  with  a  feeling  of  disgust 
and  earnest  protest. 

This  necessity  soon  formed  within  my  parents 
tiie  resolution  to  leave  the  home  that  required  a 
service  so  repugnant  and  distasteful.  The  hotel 
life  was  continued  but  for  a  year,  a  purchaser  being 
found.     Meantime,  however,  the  light  of  day  came 


20  THE    LIGHT    OF   OTHER   DAYS. 

to  be  my  portion ;  and  my  presence,  perhaps,  lent 
an  influence  in  hastening  the  change  which  had 
already  been  determined  on.  The  hearts  of  my 
parents  were  never  specially  attached  to  this  my 
natal  home,  so  that  to  me  the  place  of  birth  pre- 
sents few  of  those  pleasing  attractions  and  poetic 
phases  which  gather  around  many  such  centers. 
There  is  no  question  but  the  soul  is  greatly  ad- 
vantaged throughout  life  if  the  first  impressions 
made  by  home  surroundings  are  of  a  happy  nature. 
The  heart  can  not  but  get  helpful  inspiration  if, 
when  led  by  its  future  retrospections  back  to  its 
natal  hour  and  home,  the  scene  of  life's  beginning, 
is  one  of  beauty,  loveliness,  and  comfort.  But  even 
in  my  birth  I  was  favored  more  than  some,  and 
more  indeed  than  He  who  as  King  of  kings  and 
Son  of  God  came  down  to  tabernacle  in  clay.  For 
him  there  was  no  room  in  the  inn,  while  for  me  the 
inn  gave  room;  and  hearts  that  dwelt  therein 
gave  welcome.  The  stable  of  the  inn  and  the 
manger  of  the  stable,  these  must  answer  for  the 
Son  of  God.  JSTo  room  for  the  divine  Babe  in  the 
inn,  yet,  praise  the  Lord,  the  world  is  now  finding 
room  for  him ;  and  blessed  is  the  heart  that  can 
boast  such  a  tenant  as  he. 


MY   FATHEB.  21 


CHAPTER  V. 

MY  FATHER   A  MERCHANT  AND  A   CHRISTIAN. 

A  country  store,  but  a  little  distance  away,  was 
the  next  family  center,  and  the  scene  of  my  earlier 
childhood.  All  of  my  father's  means  were  put 
into  this  new  enterprise ;  but,  like  many  another, 
he  managed  his  business  aifairs  with  too  little  pru- 
dence. Soon,  by  the  credit  system,  his  stock  was 
greatly  reduced,  while  the  means  for  replenishing 
the  fast-failing  shelves  were  not  speedily  forthcom- 
ing. Demands,  however,  must  be  met,  even  if 
outstanding  claims  could  not  be  controlled.  One 
of  those  periodically  recurring  financial  crises  hap- 
pening at  that  time,  his  doom  was  hastened,  and 
at  a  great  sacrifice  my  father  sold  his  home  and 
his  stock.  Broken  up,  without  even  a  shelter  they 
could  call  their  own,  they  must  seek  a  new  home 
and  a  new  center  for  honest  and  needed  labor. 

"Whither  should  they  look  ?  Toward  what  point 
•should  they  turn?  If  doubt  and  anxiety  possessed 
them,  many  another  has  felt  the  pang  of  the  same 
unpleasant  experience.  It  was  but  natural  that 
the  heart  of  my  mother,  and  indeed  that  of  my 
father,  should  turn  toward  Doylestown,  the  scene 


22  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS 

and  center  of  their  earlier  years,  and  of  some  and 
many  of  their  sweetest  associations.  Heavier  were 
their  hearts  as  they  retraced  their  steps  than  when 
they  first  went  forth  on  their  joint  pilgrimage.. 
They  were  now  nnder  a  deep,  dark  cloud,  but,  as  it 
proved  at  last,  one  which  was  but  the  Father's 
hand.  Dark  and  angry  it  seemed;  and  yet  from 
this  very  cloud  were  to  come  nourishing  showers  of 
grace.  It  i%  well  at  times  that  the  sunshine  be  ob- 
scured, the  way  impeded,  and  the  heart  loaded 
with  a  cross  of  heaviness.  So  has  it  been  with 
many  in  all  the  days  of  other  years,  and  so  will  it 
be  with  many  more  in  other  days  to  come.  Speed- 
ily, however,  often  the  hour  of  deliverance  will 
come,  and  we  can  say  with  David,  "It  is  good 
for  me  that  I  have  been  afflicted."  More  than 
dark  clouds  covered  the  way  of  Moses  and  hi& 
hosts.  Still,  the  way  was  ever  opened  finally,  even 
though  the  sea  had  to  be  divided  and  its  raging 
billows  walled  up  on  either  hand.  Xourishment 
could  come  in  the  arid  plain,  and  the  waste-howl- 
ing wilderness  could  furnish  a  feast  of  bread  and 
fiesh.  A  cloud  could  cover  them  from  their  ene- 
mies, guide  them  in  the  way,  and  even  illumine 
the  darkness  of  the  midnight. 

Up  to  this  time  my  father  s  heart  had  not  been 
softened  by  the  Spirit  of  grace.  He  had  laid  away 
the  precious  dust  of  father  and  mother  into  the^ 


MY   FATHER.  23 

narrow  house  of  death ;  and  he  had  felt  keenly  and 
bitterly  his  loss.  Still,  he  had  not  made  that  blessed 
surrender  indispensable  to  full  and  perfect  prepa- 
ration for  a  similar  ordeal.  The  loss  of  property, 
severe  adversity  in  outward  circumstances,  was  to 
do  for  him  what  even  the  presence  of  death  had 
not  done.  My  mother  had  not  forgotten  the  early 
vows  of  her  religious  home,  and  had  probably  at 
no  time  surrendered  her  hope  iu  Christ.  The 
thought  of  returning  to  Doylestown  was  refresh- 
ing to  her,  as  it  seemed  to  open  anew  the  way  to 
the  sanctuary,  and  bring  her  nearer  to  the  throne 
on  high.  In  her  sweet  expectations  she  was  not 
doomed  to  disappointment.  The  new  home,  though 
rented  from  another  and  not  their  own,  was  to 
prove,  nevertheless,  the  sweetest  and  most  sacred 
of  any  they  had  yet  found.  Dr.  Andrews  was 
still  at  the  old  church,  and  the  home  of  this  man 
of  God  was  still  open  with  its  welcome  to  my 
mother  and  her  own.  Cordial  friendship  and  real 
love  were  the  offering  of  many  hearts.  These  ex- 
pressions had  their  effect  upon  my  father,  and  the 
sanctuary  became  a  place  of  frequent  and  regular 
resort.  The  ministrations  of  the  desk  were  faith- 
ful, and  they  told  upon  his  heart  with  melting  and 
saving  power.  This,  with  a  complete  change  in 
his  associations,  awakened  within  him  a  new  inter- 
est, and  led  to  a  speedy  consecration  to  the  service 


24  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

of  his  Master.  He  confessed  Christ,  aud  with  my 
mother  became  a  member  of  Dr.  Andrews'  church. 
"What  though  fortune  had  gone,  and  the  home  of 
other  days  and  the  means  of  other  years  had  been 
lost?  Something  more  had  been  gained;  yes, 
even  that  which  ^■old,  with  all  its  value,  could  not 
purchase. 


EARLY   IMPRESSIONS.  25 


CHAPTER  YI. 

EARLY   impressions;    OR,    CHILDHOOD    MEMORIES. 

The  faithful  pastor  came  frequently  to  our  home ; 
and  under  his  holy  ministrations,  as  I  well  recol- 
lect, the  tears  would  course  down  my  mother's 
cheeks,  while  her  heart  melted  under  the  holy 
man's  words  of  love.  What  wonder  that  my  ten- 
der heart  was  touched,  and  especially  as  I,  too, 
shared  in  the  good  man's  blessing  and  in  his  kindly 
words !  How  strange  that  wise  men  will  look  no 
deeper  into  the  volume  of  human  nature — that  the 
hearts  of  children  are  passed  so  long  unnoticed  and 
unfed !  Have  our  teachers  indeed  forgotten  the 
tenderness  of  their  childhood  hearts,  and  how  won- 
derfully quickened  they  were  under  kindly  notice 
and  words  of  love  V  Those  lirst  impressions,  as  I  sat 
beside  my  mother  and  listened  to  the  minister's 
words,  I  have  not  lost  them  yet.  Though  the 
distance  to  the  tomb  be  ever  so  far  with  me,  noth- 
ing can  eft'ace  them  from  my  mind.  The  words 
are  gone ;  no  trace  of  the  phraseology  appears  to 
memory ;  but  the  impression  yet  abides. 

The  altar  of  prayer  was  erected,  and  at  it  we 
gathered  with  rising  sun  and  at  decline  of  day. 


2Q  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHEli    DAYS. 

Faithfal  v/as  my  father,  and  humble  and  holy 
were  the  words  he  said  as  he  officiated  before  the 
altar  of  his  home  as  a  priest  indeed.  This  was  an 
early  period  in  my  life;  but  its  lessons  linger  with 
freshness  in  my  heart,  as  though  they  had  their 
birth  but  in  yesterday.  What  I  owe  to  these  im- 
pressions in  this  life  I  can  never  know,  nor,  had  I 
an  apostle's  pen  or  an  angel's  tongue,  could  I  hope 
to  tell. 

I  was  placed  in  the  Sabbath-school  at  a  very  ten- 
der age,  and  soon  became  deeply  interested  therein. 
The  simple  lesson  greatly  excited  my  interest,  while 
my  heart  was  animated  with  a  wonderful  rever- 
ence for  ray  teacher.  I  can  see,  as  I  look  back 
upon  those  early  days,  that  the  teacher  is  possessed 
of  a  most  wonderful  power.  While  the  child  can 
not  comprehend  the  broader  phases  and  deeper  sig- 
nificance of  inspired  truth,  yet  the  heart  is  so  ten- 
der that  it  will  at  once  receive  the  simplest  moral 
impressions.  Not  alone  so;  those  impressions  are 
absolutely  ineitaceable.  Forgetting,  as  some  phi- 
losophers claim,  is  an  impossibility.  You  may 
scratch  ever  so  lightl\'  upon  the  glass  with  the 
diamond,  l)ut  you  leave  a  mark  that  time  can 
scarcely  efface.  You  may  forget  the  time  when 
and  the  circumstances  under  which  the  line  was 
graven,  but  the  impression,  nevertheless,  is  there, 
and  must  abide.     So  with  the  child,  for  his  heart 


EARLY    IxMPRESSIOXS.  27 

IS  both  impressible  and  retentive.  The  teacher 
should  present  the  truth  in  the  simplest  form,  with 
combined  personal  interest  in  the  story  and  in  the 
heart  receiving  it.  While  I  may  not  recall  the 
lessons  I  learned  in  those  tender  years,  yet  the  im- 
pressions made  by  them  are  interwoven  with  my 
life ;  and  I  must  carry  them  down  to  my  grave. 
The  child  is  not  sufficiently  credited  either,  per- 
haps, in  the  direction  of  merit  or  ability.  He  both 
knows  more  than  we  imagine  and  deserves  more 
than  he  often  receives.  But  while  we  admit  his 
capacity  for  understanding,  it  is  even  more  impor- 
tant that  we  understand  both  the  best  method  and 
the  shortest  way  of  approach  to  his  heart.  I  may 
not  tell  the  measure  of  love  I  had  for  my  Sabbath- 
school  teacher;  and  it  was  but  a  response  to  a  sup- 
posed manifestation  of  love  from  her  heart.  Love- 
properl}-  addressed  will  reach  the  heart  of  any 
child — reach,  win,  and  hold  him.  It  is  the  lever 
by  which  the  mother  governs  and  by  which  God 
himself  moves  and  rules  the  world. 

I  did  not  simply  attend  the  Sabbath-school ;  I 
v/as  also  a  child  of  the  sanctuary.  With  my  par- 
ents I  mingled  with  the  worshipers  of  God's 
house;  and  in  this  I  was  certainly  profited,  if  but 
in  the  establishment  of  a  habit  wdiich  has  proved 
'of  life-long  advantage.  It  is  a  wonderful  mistake 
that  the  child  of  to-day  is  so  rarely  seen  in  the 


28  THE   LIGHT    OF   OTHER   DAYS. 

house  of  God  among  the  worshipers!  The  Sab- 
bath-school should  not  excuse  him  from  the  inner 
sanctuary.  The  one  should  not  be  regarded  as  a 
substitute  for  the  other.  However,  I  must  confess 
that  my  attendance  was  hardly  a  matter  of  choice, 
but  rather  a  result  of  compulsion.  I  could  not 
but  feel  that  the  sanctuary  service  was  not  for  me, 
and  that  the  church  of  God  was  not  yny  home. 
There  was  something  terrible  to  me  in  the  sanctu- 
ary;  it  was  a  prison-house  of  restraint  to  my  soul. 
I  felt  almost  afraid  while  there,  and  so  longed  to 
get  away.  The  benediction  was  my  release,  and  I 
heard  its  words  with  joy.  Everything  seemed  so 
solemn  and  sacred,  I  felt  that  the  same  spirit  and 
presence  of  death  prevailed  both  within  the  church . 
and  the  grave-yard  outside.  The  one  I  felt,  some- 
how, to  be  but  a  preparation  for  the  other.  The 
solemn  tones  of  the  organ  seemed  but  the  funeral 
inarch  from  the  pew  and  altar  to  the  silence  of  the 
grave.  I  wonder  if  these  same  icy  chains  yet  bind 
the  hearts  of  our  children ;  if  to  them  the  church 
is  the  same  dreadful  place  it  used  to  be  to  me!  If 
so,  no  wonder  they  are  such  strangers  to  our  pews, 
and  that  they  feel  so  strange  within  them.  This 
spirit  of  death-like  solemnity  pertains  not  of  right 
to  God's  house.  The  sanctuary  should  be  a  home 
for  the  heart;  and  there  should  be  ease  and  freedom  • 
there,  even  for  the  children.     The  gloom  should 


EARLY   IMPRESSIONS.  29 

be  cast  out,  and  the  icy  fetters  need  to  be  broken. 
The  services  of  God's  house  should  be  adapted 
more  fully  than  now  to  the  wants  of  a  simple,  art- 
less child.  The  voice  of  the  pulpit  should  be  more 
simple,  and  its  spirit  more  familiar.  The  story  of 
the  cross,  when  told  with  simplicity  to  please  and 
reach  the  child,  will  burn  most  deeply  into  the 
fleshly  tablets  of  older  hearts.  Child-like  simplic- 
ity is  the  want  of  the  age ;  the  one  great  want  of 
the  world. 

The  Sabbath  as  a  day,  I  confess,  was  also  a  mat- 
ter of  dread  to  me.  The  school  was  almost  the 
only  oasis  in  the  otherwise  nearly  barren  deserts 
It  was  too  much  like  a  sick-room,  where  my  voice, 
my  feelings,  and  even  my  very  breath  needed  to 
be  suppressed.  My  little  heart  was  in  freezing  fet- 
ters all  the  day,— fetters  broken  only  by  the  mor- 
row's rising  sun.  Sunday  morning  was  the  forging 
of  fetters,  while  Monday  morning  was  the  bursting 
of  chains.  Somehow,  Sunday  to  me  was  Christ's 
burial-day,  and  Monday  broke  to  the  world  the 
joy  of  his  resurrection.  Sunday's  rising  sun  seem- 
ed cold  in  hottest  summer.  The  early  hours  seemed 
strange,  while  their  revolutions  were  intolerably 
slow.  I  felt  that  I  had  no  right  to  my  own  thoughts, 
and  that  my  words  were  not  good  enough  for 
the  day.  Even  the  indulgence  of  a  smile  seemed 
but  a  violence  to  the  day.     These  impressions  of 


oO  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER    DAYS. 

the  Sabbath  were  such  as  ni}'  instructions  and  my 
general  surroundings  were  calculated  to  create.  It 
was  alike  the  lesson  of  home  and  that  of  the 
church.  The  words,  spirit,  and  ^teaching  of  our 
minister  seemed  to  throw  a  cloud  over  the  day  to 
me.  Truly,  we  may  not  attach  too  much  sanctity 
to  the  Sabbath ;  but  we  should  not  enshroud  it  with 
a  mock  solemnity,  at  once  chilling  to  the  heart  and 
repugnant  to  the  feelings.  We  should  not  bury 
the  day.  The  Sabbath  is  for  man,  and  not  man 
for  the  Sabbath.  It  should  be  the  most  beautiful 
and  joyous  day  of  all  the  seven ;  a  day  of  welcome 
to  the  weary ;  a  day  of  gladness  to  the  child. 


MY   SCHOOL-LlfE.  31 

CHAPTER  VII. 

MY   SCHOOL-LIFE    BEGINS. 

And  now  opened  another  era  in  my  career.  I 
was  to  be  introduced  to  the  day-school.  My  ap- 
proach to  it  had  been  by  the  two  blessed  stations 
of  the  sanctuary  and  the  Sabbath-school.  I  was 
about  six  years  old  when  my  father  took  me  by 
the  hand  and  led  me  to  the  village  school.  I  rec- 
ollect well  his  saying  to  the  teacher,  "  Sir,  I  wish 
you  to  take  good  care  of  him,  for  he  is  a  good  boy." 
Well,  as  I  stood  there  holding  my  father's  hand  I 
really  thought  I  was  a  good  boy.  While  my  fa- 
ther in  the  goodness  of  his  heart  may  have  thought 
so,  too,  I  soon  had  painful  reason  for  believing  that 
the  teacher  was  of  quite  a  ditferent  opinion.  My 
seat-mate  proved  to  be  an  unfortunate  companion 
for  me. 

As  I  took  my  seat  in  the  afternoon  of  one  day, 
toward  the  end  of  the  first  week,  my  teacher  dis-  ^ 
covered  a  torn  book,  belonging  to  another  scholar, 
at  my  feet.  I  was  charged  with  tearing  it,  while 
my  denial  but  enraged  the  teacher  and  made  him 
more  positive  of^my  guilt.  I  was  placed  for  the 
afternoon  upon  the  dunce-block,  with  the  dunce- 
cap  on  my  head  and  the  torn  book  pinned  to  my 


32  THE   LIGHT   OF   OTHER  DAYS. 

apron.  Here  was  punishment  greater  than  I,  a 
child  of  six  years,  could  bear.  Well-nigh  was 
my  heart  broken — broken,  but  not  softened  nor 
bettered.  I  was  being  punished  for  a  crime  of 
which  I  knew  nothing.  My  punishment  was  a 
torture  to  my  soul.  What  the  wonder  that  this 
act  roused  the  spirit  of  rebellion  within  me,  and 
that  it  estranged  and  embittered  my  heart  against 
that  teacher?  Surely  I  had  met  a  tyrant  in  the 
start ;  but,  like  poor  dog  Tray,  I  was  in  bad  compa- 
ny, and  must  sufler  as  the  result. 

I  soon  had  another  good  reason  for  remembering 
the  same  poor  dog,  and  giving  him  a  full  measure 
of  my  sympathy.  On  my  way  from  school  a  bat- 
tle was  transpiring  between  two  other  boys.  Nat- 
urally, I  stopped  to  see  the  fun,  as  doubtless  the 
teacher  himself  would  have  done  had  he  been  a 
child  like  me.  While  the  fathers  will  talk  of  bat- 
tles with  so  much  zest,  and  praise  the  courage  of 
the  soldiery  as  a  thing  of  highest  value  and  merit, 
it  is  not  strange  that  the  children  will  try  to  imitate 
the  heroism  of  their  grandfathers,  either  by  actual 
conflict  or  as  interested  witnesses  of  the  exploit. 
In  my  case,  liowever,  I  had  heard  but  little  in  this 
line,  and  had  seen  less.  But  although  the  battle 
of  the  evening  before  was  over,  I  was  destined 
nevertheless  to  see  the  smoke  of  it  on  the  next 
day.     I  was  arraigned  for  participating  in  the  fight. 


MY   SCHOOL-LIFE.  So 

and  accoadingly  punished  with  brutal  severity. 
Hero  again,  though  actually  innocent,  I  reaped 
the  painful  results  of  being  in  bad  company.  The 
natural  and  almost  inevitable  result  of  this  second 
punishment  was  to  make  of  me  a  bad  boy,  and  to 
destroy  all  the  love  I  had  for  the  school.  Coercion 
was  now  necessary,  for  the  school  had  lost  its 
charm.  I  looked  in  vain  to  the  teacher  for  sym- 
pathy, while  my  parents  unwisely  saw  little  to  con- 
demn in  his  conduct.  A  mistake  but  far  too  com- 
mon had  been  made;  and  the  mere  punishment 
was  the  mildest  part  of  the  disadvantage  to  me. 
The  glory  of  my  new  life  was  under  a  cloud,  and 
I  was  henceforth  to  grope  my  way  in  the  dark. 
Sympathy  and  love  I  needed — these,  with  the  kind- 
ly word.  Instead,  I  felt  the  rod;  and  thereby  my 
heart  was  stung  and  roused  into  rebellion  and  re- 
venge. The  youngest  heart  will  quickly  respond 
to  the  spirit  of  its  master;  and  oh,  what  tender 
care  should  be  taken  in  that  spirit's  birth.  My  fa- 
ther's determination  to  remove  from  Doylestown 
was  hailed  with  living  joy,  for  I  felt  that  prison- 
bars  were  being  left  behind.  A  teacher's  unguard- 
ed and  maddened  stroke  had  wounded  my  pride 
and  blasted  the  glory  of  my  village  home.  As  I 
went  forth  I  felt  that  Egypt  was  behind,  and  only 
Canaan  before;  but,  like  Israel,  I  soon  learned 
that  there  was  a  wilderness  ahead. 
s 


84  THE   LIGHT    OF    OTilS.l   DAY.i. 


CHAPTER  YIII. 

THE   NEW   HOME. 

My  father  was  to  become  a  farmer  again,  and  I 
a  farmer's  son.  The  restraint  of  the  village  was 
to  be  exchanged  for  the  freedom  and  salubrity  of 
the  country  home  and  air.  The  removal  was  not 
far;  but  the  change  seemed  great,  and  by  none  was 
appreciated  more  than  by  me.  Experience  in  the 
life  of  farming  was  what  I  had  never  had,  though 
born  a  farmer's  son.  The  world  seemed  much 
greater  and  grander  to  me  when  the  farm  became 
my  home;  and  even  the  heavens  seemed  bluer, 
brighter,  and  nearer  than  ever  before.  It  appeared 
almost  as  though  G-od  created  the  country  for  him- 
self, and  really  ruled  therein,  while  the  town  was 
of  man's  creation,  and  had  but  man  for  its  ruler. 
Everything  seemed  to  say,  "  God  has  been  here, 
and  his  hand  hath  formed  and  fashioned  nie."  The 
woods,  too,  were  so  beautiful,  and  their  green  verd- 
ure so  lovely,  while  the  songsters  of  t'l  •  wood 
seemed  to  sing  all  the  day  for  me.  And  with  what 
sweet  melody  they  sung  I  N'ever  had  the  music  of 
the  sanctuary  appeared  so  much  like  praise  or  so 


THE   NEW   HOME.  35 

touched  mj  heart  as  the  sweet  carols  of  these  free 
birds. 

Our  little  farm-house,  with  its  bright  coat  of 
fresh,  yellow  paint,  was  to  me  as  a  royal  palace, 
while  therein  my  father  looked  a  king  and   my 
mother  his  beautiful  queen.     A  little  way  to  the 
eastward,  deep  down  from  the  door  of  our  home, 
was  the  old  Turk  mill-pond,  which  to  me  had  the 
loveliness  of  the  sea  and  the  grandeur  of  the  ocean. 
^o  painting  of  skillful  artist  could  equal  this.     It 
was  all  beauty,  such  as  the  divine  Artist  only  could 
form  and  fashion.     The  iish,  as  if  made  of  silver 
and  gold,  were  the  sporting  treasures  of  its  silent 
-depths,  while  its  bosom  was  rippled  by  the  proud 
water-fowl,  whose  motions  were  all  elegance  and 
o^race.     In  summer-time,  under  golden  sun  and  sil- 
ver moon,  the  happy  youth  would  plow  the  deep 
Avith  oar  and  helm,  beating  and  turning  to  the  tune 
.and  time  of  merry  song,  while  their  merry  hearts 
would  send  up  to  their  cottage  honies  the  tones  of 
melody  and  the  voice  of  glee.     When  old  Boreas 
Jiad  stolen  down  from  the  north  and  locked  the 
silver  ripples  in  cold  and  silent  sleep,  and.  built  his 
proud  highway  from   shore  to  shore,  then  young 
men  and  maidens  would  share  in  the  skater's  skill 
and  the  coaster's  sport  until  the  silence  of  the  for- 
est and  the  illumination  of  the  hills  proclaimed  the 
hour  of  rest  for  all. 


36  THE   LIGHT    OF    OTHER    DAYS. 

The  Big  Neshaminy,  winding  among  the  hills 
in  the  neighborhood,  and  crooking  itself  like  a 
serpent,  as  if  disputing  with  rugged  nature  the 
right  of  personal  being,  was  one  of  the  most  pict- 
uresque streams  of  any  country.  From  its  elevat- 
ed origin  and  its  large  volume  it  afforded  power 
for  numerous  mills,  so  that  besides  nourishing  the 
soil  which  produced  our  grain,  it  provided  also  the 
strength  which  ground  the  corn  for  our  bread. 
From  either  side  of  this  stream  bold  bluffs  arose,, 
as  if  luTature,  in  her  stalwart  sons,  would  look  down 
with  an  eye  of  scrutiny  upon  this  intruder  while 
hastening  on  his  winding  way.  On  the  inside  of 
the  elbow  of  the  Big  Neshaminy,  surmounting 
one  of  these  lordly  bluffs,  was  an  old  stone  build- 
ing, which  served  in  its  room  below  for  the  week- 
day school,  and  in  its  room  above  for  the  services 
of  the  Sabbath-school  and  church.  What  a  grand 
place  was  this  for  the  education  of  the  sons  and 
daughters  of  Nature's  noblemen.  With  the  eye 
upon  the  romantic  beauty  of  surrounding  nature, 
how  could  the  heart  fail  to  catch  an  inspiration 
which  would  make  it  gigantic  in  its  strength? 
With  the  roar  of  the  rumbling  stream  below,  into 
which,  from  the  window  above,  one  could  plunge 
a  stone  even  without  the  aid .  of  a  David's  sling, 
and  with  the  almost  ceaseless  voice  of  the  old  mill 
in  the  vale  below,  why  should  not  the  heart  of  a 


THE   NEW   HOME.  37 

achool-boy  be  glad,  and  his  voice  defiantly  bold  ? 
If  bere  was  not  a  field  of  freedom  for  the  liberat- 
ed heart,  where,  in  all  the  world,  could  such  a  place 
be  found?  On  this  winding  stream  I  first  tried  my 
skill  as  a  traveler  on  skates ;  and  with  many  falls 
and  serious  bumps  I  took  my  first  lessons  as  a  star- 
£-azer.  Coasting  from  the  bold  blufi"  above  to  the 
frozen  stream  below,  with  dizzy  gyrations  on 
skates  and  the  building  of  old  snow-forts,  was 
sport  enough  for  winter,  while  with  the  native 
charms  of  summer  came  the  pleasures  of  fishing, 
boating,  and  bathing. 

But  all  of  the  attractions  of  those  days  did  not 
center  in  the  room  below.  There  was  a  school 
above  of  blessed  memory.  Dr.  Andrews  conduct- 
ed the  service  above  as  preacher,  and  noble  men 
and  women  from  the  country  about  served  as 
teachers.  To  me  the  doctor's  preaching  seemed  very 
difterentfrom  that  which  he  gave  in  town,  and  really 
better  withal.  ■  And  then,  in  his  manner  he  seemed 
more  like  a  man  and  a  father.  While  we  could 
get  nearer  to  him,  his  talk,  also,  was  more  direct 
and  familiar.  I  could  greatly  enjoy  his  preaching 
here,  while  the  charm  of  the  Sabbath-school  was 
wonderfully  increased. 


38  THE   LIGHT   OF   OTHER  DAYS. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  CRADLE  AND  THE  GRAVE. 

While  these  general  changes  were  transpiring 
without,  others,  also,  were  going  on  within  our 
home.  I  was  no  longer  the  only  child.  God  gave 
me  a  brother  for  my  companionship ;  and  a  darling 
brother  he  was  to  me.  Taught  to  believe  that  he 
came  down  from  God,  he  certainly  seemed  the  gift 
of  Heaven  to  me.  If  not  an  angel  in  all  respects^ 
to  me  he  seemed  even  more  than  an  angel.  For 
the  company  of  no  one  of  that  thriving  retinue 
would  I  have  given  him. 

"Our  baby,"  and  "my  brother,"  were  boastful 
words  with  me,  and  their  possibility  afforded  occa- 
sion for  real  pride.  And  then  a  bab}^  sister  came 
to  us — a  gray-eyed  baby  sister ;  the  prettiest  babe 
in  the  world,  I  thought.  And  she  was  to  me  as  the 
treasure  of  a  king.  How  rich  now  was  I  with  a 
brother,  and  a  sister  too!  But  the  brother  was 
not  long  to  stay.  He  was  only  to  begin  here  a  life 
that  should  never  end.  From  above,  he  was  to  go 
back  ag-ain  too  soon.  Almost  with  his  birth  the 
angels  had  begun  to  arrange  for  him  a  home  on 


THE  CRADLE  AND  THE  GRAVE.        39 

high  with  them.  Soon  I  was  to  know  by  a  sad 
experience  what  that  was  of  which  my  parents 
had  so  often  talked,  and  of  which  our  minister  had 
so  often  warned.  I  was  to  know  the  dreadful 
meaning  of  death,  and  to  see  and  feci  its  presence 
in  my  own  home. 

Three  years  only  had  the  dear  boy  lived  with  ua 
in  the  old  farm-home.  But  oh,  how  he  had  added 
to  the  music  of  that  home  during  the  few  brief 
years  of  his  stay.  "Too  good  for  earth,"  some 
said  he  was,  and  others,  "  Too  bright  and  active 
for  a  lengthy  stay  below."  i^ot  too  good,  I  felt 
very  sure,  for  none  are  too  good  for  earth  who  be- 
long to  the  mortal  form.  Angels  have  come  down 
into  the  human  form,  and  for  the  few  brief  hours 
of  a  day  have  tarried  with  the  sons  of  men,  while 
He  who  was  infinitely  more  than  the  angels,  even 
God's  own  blessed  Son,  had  dwelt  with  men  for 
many  years.  The  mind  of  my  dear  brother,  how- 
ever, was  too  active  for  the  frail,  feeble  form,  and 
under  its  energy  the  body  withered  and  the  soul 
burst  its  bars  and  fled.  From  memory  of  the  rec- 
itations of  others  he  would  repeat  or  answer  whole 
chapters  of  the  catechism.  Though  he  lived  not 
long,  he  must  have  learned  many  lessons  that  gave 
a  familiar  air  to  the  home  and  life  on  high  as  he 
rose  up  from  earth  and  entered  into  the  holy  city. 
When  there,  I  fancy  he  at   once  felt  himself  at 


40  THE   LIGHT   OF   OTHER   DAYS. 

home.  I  well  remember  how,  as  he  sat  on  my  fa- 
ther's knee,  he  listened  to  the  story  of  the  Savior'3 
life  and  death.  Told  once,  he  would  ask  that  it 
miglit  be  told  again. 

One  day  the  fever  came,  and  his  cheeks  were  all 
aflush  with  flame.  Oh,  he  seemed  so  sick,  and  suf- 
fered so  much.  How  I  studied  the  face  of  my 
mother  as  she  bowed  over  the  form  of  my  brother! 
Thus  I  sought  to  read  her  thoughts  and  know  how 
the  darling  was.  He  sometimes  asked  for  me ;  but 
I  felt  that  the  icy  king  had  hold  of  his  hand,  and 
for  fear  of  the  monster  I  dreaded  to  approach  my 
brother's  bed.  From  his  bed  I  shrunk,  and  forth 
from  the  room  I  sought  freedom  and  safety.  The 
doctor's  care  and  my  mother's  anxious  watching 
seemed  to  avail  nothing  against  the  fever's  fire. 
Oh,  how  I  prayed  that  God  would  not  call  him 
back  again  to  his  native  home.  But  this  praying 
availed  me  nothing,  for  death  soon  came.  His  lips 
grew  cold,  and  bore  no  kiss  for  me ;  his  eyes  were 
sealed,  and  sent  no  smile  to  me.  He  was  dead; 
and  now,  in  all  the  world,  I  had  no  brother! 

Dr.  Andrews  came,  and  by  my  mother's  side 
spoke  words  which,  though  they  gave  relief  to  the 
heart,  yet  added  freely  to  the  stream  of  scalding 
tears.  Prayer  was  more  solemn  than  ever,  and 
the  light  of  home  seemed  forever  withdrawn. 
Then  came  the  coffin-case  to  cradle  my  brother's 


THE  CRADLE  AND  THE  GRAVE.        41 

form.  Oh,  it  seemed  to  me  that  he  should  never 
be  taken  from  his  bed  of  down.  To  transfer  his 
little  body  therefrom  to  the  cold,  dismal  coflin 
seemed  a  final  act  of  cruelty.  And  now  the  funeral- 
day  was  come,  and  he  was  to  be  borne  forth  to  the 
bed  of  death,  in  the  lonely  burial-ground.  The 
place  from  which  I  shrunk,  and  toward  which  I 
hardly  dared  to  turn  my  gaze  or  thought,  was  to 
become  the  resting-place  of  him  I  loved  so  tender- 
ly. From  my  bed  he  was  to  go  forth  and  lie  down 
in  the  bed  of  death  alone.  The  man  of  God,  with 
tender  emotion,  conducted  the  solemn  service,  and 
then,  for  the  last  time,  the  cofiin-lid  was  raised  for 
the  gaze  of  friends.  Oh,  my  heart  seemed  break- 
ing within  me  as  I  looked  into  that  face  for  the  last 
time.  IS'ever  again,  in  all  this  life,  was  I  to  see 
him  more.  The  last  look  was  taken  amid  the  sob- 
bings of  melted,  broken  hearts,  and  we  turned 
away  forever.  The  lid  was  sealed,  the  tiny  body 
borne  forth,  the  procession  formed,  and  toward  the 
old  church-yard  we  slowly  moved.  Oh,  what  a 
solemn  march !  Even  the  birds  seemed  to  sing  as 
if  death  was  in  their  thought,  and  their  cadences 
but  added  to  the  gloom  of  the  hour.  We  lowered 
him  into  the  dark  chamber  of  the  grave,  with  the 
dead  as  his  only  companions.  It  seemed  to  me 
there  ought  to  be  one  window  in  that  grave,  through 
which  we  misrht  look  down  on  him.     But  he  had 


42  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

the  watcli  of  angels,  and  Grod  would  not  forget  his 
dust.  The  homeward  ride  was  one  of  added  gloom. 
Going  forth,  he  was  one  with  us ;  homeward,  Ave 
were  alone!  The  old  home  appeared  no  longer 
home,  and  the  shadows  of  coming  night  seemed 
but  the  return  of  the  wings  of  death. 


A   PECULIAR  PEOPLE.  4& 


CHAPTER  X. 

A  PECULIAR   PEOPLE. 

The  care  of  the  farm  upon  which  we  lived,  to- 
gether with  the  sorrow  consequent  upon  the  death 
of  my  brother,  told  severely  upon  my  father,  while 
the  increased  care  of  my  mother  from  God's  gift 
to  us  of  another  child,  a  dear  blue-eyed  sister,  de- 
termhied  my  folks  to  remove  to  a  small  place  in 
another  neighborhood,  a  few  miles  away.  I  con- 
fess to  much  reluctance  on  my  own  part  in  leaving 
forever  a  home  which  had  been  so  pleasant,  and 
which  had  become  so  sacred  withal  by  the  birth  of 
two  sisters  and  the  death  of  my  only  brother. 
And  then  the  removal  would  take  us  farther  from 
his  grave,  and  make  our  visit  thereto  an  infrequent 
occurrence.  There  was  much  to  give  up ;  and  I 
found  that  I  had  by  no  means  the  same  feeling  as 
that  with  which  I  left  the  village  of  Doylestown. 

The  new  home  to  me  was  not  one  of  real  inter- 
est or  special  beauty.  It  had  not  the  romantic 
'surroundings  of  that  from  which  we  came;  but 
the  general  feeling  to  me  was  one  of  gloom  and 


44  THE   LIGHT   OF   OTHER   DAYS. 

unhome-likeuess.  The  iieiorliborliood  did  not  af- 
ford  me  the  same  advantages  in  companionship  or 
facilities  for  schooling,  while  the  old  Sabbath-school 
in  the  stone  house  on  the  bluif,  by  the  winding 
Big  Neshaminy,  was  never  in  its  like  to  be  found 
again.  Still,  with  the  disadvantages  there  were 
many  advantages  in  the  removal.  If  I  lost  in  my 
social  companionship,  1  gained  beyond  question  in 
my  religious  surroundings.  I  had,  up  to  this  time, 
been  trained  exclusively  under  Puritanical  and 
Presbyterian  influences ;  and  in  the  religious  world 
I  knew  nothing  else  than  that  cold,  severe  type  of 
theology  and  training.  My  nature  longed  for  the 
warmer  aspects  of  religion,  and  for  a  nearer  and 
more  social  approach  to  the  fountain  of  spiritual 
life.  I  had  lived  thus  far  too  largely  on  the  north 
side  of  life,  so  to  speak,  and  now  I  was  to  pass 
around  to  the  sunnier  south  and  warm  the  other 
side  of  my  nature.  My  teaching  had  been  too 
much  from  an  intellectual  stand-point,  and  withal 
too  formal.  It  had  been  a  good  foundation  to 
build  upon;  but  now  that  the  walls  of  the  temple 
were  to  go  up  higher,  there  needed  to  be  a  blend- 
ing of  softer  materials  with  the  cold  and  solid 
granite. 

To  the  eastward  of  a  large  tract  of  tall,  gnarled 
oaks,  in  a  small  opening,  stood  a  plain-looking  but' 
tasteful  church-house,  of  small  dimensions.     There 


A    P~rULIAR   PEOPLE.  45 

was  a  small  open  yard  in  front,  while  in  the  rear 
was  a  large  space  consecrated  to  the  burial  of  the 
neighborhood  dead.  This  was  the  only  church 
within  a  circuit  of  several  miles.  It  was  owned 
by  the  Tunkers — more  familiarly  known  as  Dunk- 
arc)  s.  My  mother  had  often  spoken  to  me  of 
their  peculiar  methods  of  worship  and  their  bap- 
tism. I  had  often  witnessed  this  ceremony  in  the 
old  church  at  Doylestown;  and  at  the  sacred  font, 
it  was  said,  I  had  been  baptized,  and  my  brothers 
and  sisters  afterward.  What  other  form  of  bap- 
tism could  there  be?  My  curiosity  was  at  fever 
heat,  and  I  longed  for  an  opportunity  to  witness 
the  rite  in  the  new  form  of  this  singular  people. 

Soon  after  our  removal,  and  at  the  very  first 
meeting  held  by  this  people  thereafter,  an  oppor- 
tunity ottered.  Baptism  was  announced,  and  I  had 
the  consent  of  my  parents  to  attend.  Besides  bap- 
tism, I  was  to  be  the  witness  of  other  and  even 
stranger  things.  At  the  church  the  men  saluted 
each  other  uot  alone  with  extended  hand,  but  with 
cordial  kiss,  displaying  a  familiarity  and  a  degree 
of  fellowship  which  I  supposed  wholly  unknown 
among  men.  My  astonishment  increased  as  I  en- 
tered the  church.  Surely  it  was  entirely  unlike  the 
only  church  I  knew.  No  organ  sent  forth  its  peals 
of  solemn  music,  while  no  carpet  covered  the  floor 
or  cushions  the  pews  of  the  house.     The  men,  with 


46  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DATS. 

loug,  flowing  locks,  and  hair  parted  in  the  middle, 
were  seated  by  themselves  on  one  side  of  the 
•church,  while  the  women,  seated  by  themselves, 
were  ranged  on  the  other  side.  Their  heads  were 
divested  of  bonnets,  while  they  were  crowned  with 
caps  of  delicate  whiteness.  The  man  of  God  who 
was  to  minister  at  the  altar  was  the  model  of  a 
farmer  of  the  plainest  type.  The  song  was  no  ar- 
tistic display  of  choral  band,  but  a  spontaneous  out- 
burst of  praise  from  tongues  and  hearts  all  attuned 
by  the  Spirit  of  God.  Such  music  I  had  never 
heard.  They  sung  with  the  freedom  of  the  warl)lers 
of  the  wilderness,  and,  as  if  like  them,  their  voices 
were  addressed  to  God.  And  then  when  the  minis- 
ter said,  '■'■Let  us  'pray"  the  congregation  arose  but 
to  fall  upon  their  knees  before  the  throne.  It  was 
a  sight  to  see,  and  the  vision  entranced  my  soul. 
I  felt  that  God  was  there,  and  that  the  people  were 
indeed  his  children. 

It  did  seem  to  me  that  Il^ad  never  witnessed 
worship  before ;  and  probably  by  no  display  that 
I  had  ever  beheld  had  I  been  carried  so  completely 
into  the  presence  of  my  Master.  The  discourse 
w^hich  followed  was  expository,  covering  nearly 
an  entire  chapter,  and  to  me  was  intensely  inter- 
esting. Dismissed,  the  congregation  repaired  to 
the  stream  near  by  for  baptism.  I  was  in  a  good 
frame  of  mind  to  witness  the  ceremony,  and  had 


A   PECULIAR   PEOPLE.  47 

a  commanding  position  on  a  bridge  near  the  scene. 
The  candidate  once  within  the  stream,  he  kneeled, 
and  certain  questions  being  asked  and  answered,  a 
blessing  was  invoked  upon  the  new  disciple.  The 
candidate  was  now  immersed  in  water,  face  fore- 
most, three  times,  once  each  in  the  three  blessed 
names  of  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost.  Arising, 
the  candidate  was  led  forth  and  greeted  in  the  most 
cordial  and  attectionate  manner,  receiving  the  ex- 
tended hand  and  the  kiss  of  welcome.  As  I  went 
to  my  home  I  felt  that  indeed  I  had  witnessed 
strange  things  that  day.  With  wonderful  anima- 
tion I  related  my  experience  to  my  parents,  who 
received  my  story  with  seeming  indifference,  I 
thought 

In  the  evening  I  was  permitted  to  worship  with 
this  people  again.  The  center  of  the  house  I  found 
vacated  of  the  pews,  and  in  their  stead  a  table 
spread  with  a  frugal  meal.  Following  a  brief  ser- 
mon, they  partook  i.S  this,  with  water  only  for 
their  drink.  Preceding  this  was  the  ceremony  of 
feet- washing,  and  the  holy  communion  followed. 
I  was  much  pleased  with  what  I  saw,  and  felt  that 
in  all  these  things  the  heart  had  a  place.  I  had 
never  seen  such  social,  fraternal,  and  affectionate 
manifestations  before,  nor  such  living  signs  of  real 
Christian  brotherhood.  Whatever  their  theology 
might  be,  I  loved  the  people  for  what  they  appear- 


48  THE   LIGHT   OF   OTHER   DAYS. 

to  be.  I  felt  at  home,  longed  to  go  again,  and 
thought  I  should  be  most  happy  if  I  could  but  fully 
share  in  their  work  of  worship.  This  experience 
inclined  me  to  think  and  talk  a  great  deal  about 
religious  matters.  I  felt  that  this  people  were  pos- 
sessed of  a  feeling  and  an  experience  with  which  I 
was  wholly  unacquainted.  I  was  uneasy,  and  felt 
that  I  should  do  something  for  my  own  safety.  I 
had  ever  reverenced  the  church,  but  now  I  was 
really  in  love  with  and  felt  that  I  should  be  a 
member  of  it.  In  the  anxiety  of  my  heart  I  nat 
urally  approached  my  mother.  She  assured  me 
that  virtually  I  was  a  church-member,  and  would 
soon  be  old  enough  for  confirmation  as  a  member. 
But  my  love  for  the  Do\destown  church  was  grow- 
ing cold,  and  I  was  only  too  glad  that  my  folks  so 
readily  found  excuses  for  remaining  away.  Since 
witnessing  the  worship  of  the  Tunkers,  that  at 
Doylestown  seemed  cold  and  more  formal  than  ev- 
er. The  preaching  of  the  Tunker  Church  was 
only  occasional,  and  I  consequently  saw  less  of 
their  worship  than  T  desired. 


THE   MODEL    TEAOHER. 


40 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE   MODEL   TEACHER. 

Their  Sabbath-school  was  held  regularly,  how- 
ever, and  therein  I  was  soon  a  regular  and  an  in- 
terested attendant.     Now,  instead  of  coming  to  the 
catechism,  I  found  myself  approaching  more  di- 
rectly than  ever   the  Word  itself.     I  was  being 
brought  into  cordial  contact,  also,  with  a  form  of 
life  for  which  I  thirsted.     I  was  to  iind  friends  that 
could  sympathize  with  my  want,  and  direct  me  in 
my   gropings  after  truth.      What  wonder,  then, 
that  my  soul  warmed  with  a  new  love,  even  toward 
men  that  seemed  so  strange.     These  rough  men 
were  to  write  impressions  on  my  heart  that  were 
to  largely  change  my  ways,  and  even  mold  my 
life.     I  began  to  rejoice  in  the  change  we  had  made. 
Heretofore  my  Sabbath-school  teachers  had  been 
ladies,  and  I  had  felt  a  special  freedom  in  approach- 
ing them.  The  tenderness  of  motherhood  and  sister- 
hood seems  best  suited  to  the  wants  of  the  child- 
like heart;  and  doubtless  our  most  effective  and 
acceptable  teachers  are  ladies.     In  this  direction, 

4 


50.  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DATS. 

however,  T  was  to  have  a  new  experience ;  I  was 
to  have  my  first  gentleman  teacher.  I  was  to  learn 
that  a  man's  heart  had  not  suiiply  an  austere  and 
commanding  phase,  but  a  tender  and  affectionate 
side.     A  gentleman  of  about  forty  years,  with  dark 

yes  and  curly  black  hair,  :i  Mr.  C,  was  to  expound 
the  holy  word  to  my  class,  and  break  the  bread 
of  life  to  my  soul.  I  found,  rather  to  my  surprise, 
that  I  could  freely  approach  him ;  and  I  discov- 
ered for  him  at  once  in  my  heart  a  cordial  regard 
and  a  hearty  reverence.  He  showed  from  the  start 
a  double  interest — first,  in  the  lesson  expounded, 
and  then  in  the  student  taught.  He  felt  after  the 
h  'arts  of  his  scholars,  and  sought  to  impress  them 
with  a  conviction  of  the  presence  of  his  Master, 
and  to  infuse  into  their  hearts  the  spirit  of  that 
Master.  To  save  as  well  as  teach,  he  accepted  as 
his  obligation;  and  he  made  this  thought  specially 
manifest  to  each  of  us.  From  the  depth  of  his 
concern,  I  began  to  feel  that  I  was  really  in  danger. 
So  far  in  life  it  had  appeared  to  me  that  I  was  in 
Sabbath-school  simply  and  only  for  real,  solid 
work,  and  that  this  school  of  the  Sabbath  differed 
from  the  week-day  school  only  in  the  nature  ot 
that  work.  The  school  had  failed  to  impress  me 
with  a  sense  of  personal  concern  or  want.  I  had 
failed  until  now  to  see  myself  a  sinnei,  or  to  learr 
even  that  others  thought  of  me  as  a  sinner  or  me 


THE   MODEL   TEACHER.  51 

in  need  of  helping  Heaven.  While  heretofore  love 
had  been  exhibited,  now  there  was  manifest  a  ten- 
der solicitude  that  seemed  strange,  and  something 
-which  I  could  not  understand.  Why  should  this 
strange,  strong  man  take  an  interest  in  me  which 
other  teachers  heretofore,  and  even  my  ow^n  father 
and  mother,  had  not?  I  began  to  feel  myself  a 
patient,  and  that  I  could  accept  my  teacher  as  the 
needed  physician  of  my  soul.  He  talked  of  relig- 
ion as  though  he  loved  it  and  w^as  familiar  with  it. 
This  seemed  strange  to  me,  for  in  the  simplicity  of 
my  heart  I  had  concluded  that  men  did  not  like  to 
speak  of  religion,  nor  even  of  the  name  of  its 
great  Teacher.  If  mentioned,  it  was  certainly  gen- 
erally in  the  spirit  of  apology,  if  not  in  its  lan- 
guage. I  had  learned  heartily  to  pity  a  person 
when  under  the  necessity  of  such  a  labor.  I  re- 
garded this  familiar  mention  of  religious  matters 
as  the  work  alone  of  ministers.  I  could  not  but 
think  of  them  as  wonderfully  courageous  men,  to 
speak  so  boldly  to  others  of  their  Master.  But 
now,  how  different  I  It  no  longer  seemed  to  me 
as  something  far-fetched  and  foreign  to  the  soil  of 
thesoul,but  rather  as  a  genial  life,  bubbling  up  from 
this  man's  heart.  Religion  had  never  seemed  so 
beautiful  before  as  I  saw  it  in  the  general  habits, 
manners,  words,  and  spirit  of  this  Mr.  C.  Evi- 
dently his  work  was  not  simply  that  of  a  formal 


52  THE    LIGHT   OF   OTHER   DAYS. 

teacher,  nor  even  primarily  this.  He  appeared 
more  to  me  as  a  servant  of  God,  one  whose  busi- 
ness it  was  to  win  disciples  tor  the  Master. 

^or  were  the  school-room  and  the  Sabbath-day 
the  only  place  and  time  for  his  employment.  Ev- 
ery day  and  every  place  seemed  the  same  to  him. 
I  was  made  to  feel  that  I  was  his  scholar  seven 
days  in  the  week,  instead  of  one,  and  on  the  street 
and  in  the  field  as  well  as  in  his  class.  He  would 
often  talk  personally  to  me  of  religion,  outside  of 
the  class  and  the  room,  and  even  take  me  to  his 
home  and  table.  What  a  wonderful  impression 
this  familiar  intercourse  and  this  courteous  atten- 
tion had  on  me!  I  felt  myself  both  honored  and 
loved.  And  then  when  the  evening  for  prayer- 
meeting  came  he  would  often  call  for  me  at  my 
home,  and  ask  my  company  to  the  house  of  God. 
"What  wonder  that  my  heart  was  touched,  and  that 
I  formed  an  interest  in  this  man  that  amounted 
even  to  love  itself.  However,  I  was  not  yet  to 
yield  to  this  blessed  persuasion  of  a  holy  life.  Why 
I  did  not  I  shall  never  understand,  and  shall  never 
cease  to  regret  that  I  did  not 


COUNTERACTING  INFLUENCES.         53 


CHAPTER  XII. 

COUNTERACTING  INFLUENCES. 

Unfortunately  for  me,  there  were  other  and 
counteracting  influences  at  work.  Of  these,  in  a 
few  words,  I  must  speak.  My  immediate  com- 
panions were  boys  of  rather  rough  habits,  though 
of  genial  and  cordial  natures.  With  them  the 
habits  of  chewing,  smoking,  and  profanity  were 
heartily  indulged  and  fixed.  I  eagerly  shrunk 
from  all  of  these,  and  regarded  them  as  trifling^ 
degrading,  and  even  brutish,  I  felt  that  I  would 
give  anything  to  dissuade  my  friends  from  pursu- 
ing them.  In  this,  however,  I  did  not  succeed; 
but  as  their  ways  became  familiar  I  felt  less  objec- 
tion to  them,  took  less  notice  of  them,  and  was 
perceptibly  influenced  by  them.  The  habit  of 
smoking  I  accepted  as  something  somehow  manly, 
but  secretly  practiced  it  for  fear  of  my  parents. 
Chewing  disgusted  me,  while  profanity  shocked 
me,  and  neither  habit  could  I  consent  for  a  mo- 
ment to  adopt. 

I  did  adopt  some  foolish  by- words,  although 
profane  words  never  had  up  to  this  time,  I   am 


54  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

proud  to  say,  passed  my  lips.  These  coarse  words, 
however,  blunted  my  conscience  gradually,  and  led 
me  to  listen  somewhat  composedly  to  bolder  words. 
Indeed,  this  partial  compromise  was  but  an  encour- 
agement to  actual  profanity  in  my  mates.  I  have 
been  wonderfully  astonished  since  in  my  life,  and 
was  often  in  the  days  of  my  boyhood,  to  hear  even 
simplest  by-words  and  foolish,  nonsensical  talk 
from  persons  of  holy  profession.  It  ever  seemed 
to  me  as  a  cowardly  approach  to  the  worst  habits 
of  boldly  wicked  men.  Such  coarse  and  foolish 
talk  ever  lowered  men  of  holy  professions  in  my 
mind;  and  no  such  persons  could  possibly  have 
reached  me  from  a  religious  stand-point  under 
any  circumstances.  Christian  men  do  not  sutfi- 
ciently  realize  how  watchful  and  critical  children 
and  youth  are,  especially  toward  those  whom,  by 
profession,  they  are  led  to  regard  as  holy.  A  vast 
multitude  of  tender  youth  are  driven  from  virtue's 
center  by  unseemly  conduct  in  professing  men. 

Up  to  this  period  of  my  life  I  had  never  been 
allowed  to  go  beyond  the  sacred  precincts  of  home 
after  the  shades  of  night  had  fallen,  except  on  er- 
rands or  to  centers  of  social  and  religious  interest. 
The  country  store  was  near  by,  and  it  was  the  re- 
sort of  many  lounging,  idling  men  and  boys,  in 
whose  foolish  talk  there  was  much  to  disgust,  and 
vet  some  things  to  charm.     My  mates  were  wont 


COUNTERACTING  INFLUENCES.         55 

to  gather  here,  and  I  gladly  formed  excuseis  to  be- 
take myself  to  the  same  resort, — at  first  with 
a  feeling  of  hesitation  and  shame,  and  afterward 
with  boldness  and  confidence.  This  habit  had  up- 
on me,  as  I  could  see  at  that  time,  and  as  since 
I  have  most  painfully  seen,  a  really  pernicious  ef- 
fect. Many  habits  are  learned  from  the  rough  talk 
of  such  a  resort  that  will  be  accepted,  and  which 
often  are  not  rejected  until  sorrow,  shame,  and  ruin 
are  reaped  in  consequence.  The  home  fireside  for 
the  evening  hour  is  the  safest  place  for  the  forming 
mind  of  the  child ;  and  not  until  the  habits  of 
youth  are  well  fixed  may  they  safely  go  forth  from 
these  God-created  centers.  Home  should  be  made 
more  attractive  than  what  it  usually  is.  Too  often 
the  child  finds  himself  in  the  way,  or  he  feels 
chained  down  by  a  restraint  that  makes  hira 
long  for  freedom  and  relief.  There  is  not  famil- 
iarity enough  between  parents  and  their  children. 
The  idea  that  a  child  may  approach  the  parents  of 
a  mate  more  freely  than  he  can  his  own  is  a 
most  terrible  mistake.  Yet  this  is  too  often  and 
generally  the  case.  'No  wonder,  then,  that  young 
people  seek  release  from  home  in  the  familiar  spirit 
and  expressions  that  can  not  be  found  at  home. 
This  absence  from  home  and  resort  to  the  country 
store  operated  severely  against  the  influence  of  my 
teacher,  and  almost  entirely  counteracted  the  good 


56  THE   LIGHT   OF   OTHER   DAYS. 

man's  work  for  a  hold  upon  my  heart.  I  began 
to  desire  that  he  should  somewhat  loosen  his  hold 
on  me;  and  with  increasing  interest  in  my  bold 
companions  I  felt  less  interest  in  him. 


A  NEW  BROTHER  AND  A  NEW  HOME.      57 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

A  NEW  BROTHER  AND  A  NEW  HOME. 

Here  in  this  home  I  was  blessed  again  with  the 
gift  of  a  baby  brother.  Our  Willie  was  not  to 
take  entirely  the  place  of  Ross,  the  darling  broth- 
er we  had  lain  away  in  the  old  church-yard  at 
Doylestown,  but  he  was  to  share  with  me  in  pos- 
sessing and  loving  him.  I  was  happy  again  in  the 
sweet  thought  that  once  more  I  had  a  brother ; 
and  yet  from  the  first  I  lived  in  constant  fear  that, 
like  my  brother  Ross,  Willie,  too,  might  die.  This 
dear  brother,  however,  was  to  be  spared  for  a  good 
number  of  years,  and  was  to  become  to  me  a  broth- 
er indeed — a  dear  companion  of  unspeakable  value. 
He  will  have  a  large  place,  as  in  every  way  he  de- 
served, in  the  future  pages  of  this  book. 

Meantime  another  removal  was  determined  on 
Once  more  we  were  to  go  forth  as  pilgrims;  and 
from  a  new  center  I  was  to  experience  changes 
and  form  associations  that  would  tell  deeply  upon 
the  future  of  my  being  and  my  work.  A  neigh- 
borhood of  many  blessed  associations  was  to  be 
left,  and  perhaps   before  the  saving  impressions 


58  THE   LIGHT    OF   OTHER   DAYS. 

received  were  entirely  neutralized.  We  were  to 
return  toward  the  old  Neshaminy  home.  Spring- 
time had  come,  and  the  loveliness  of  nature  seemed 
almost  at  its  best.  It  was  a  good  time  to  change, 
when  the  birds  were  returning  and  when  the  heav- 
ens and  th*e  earth  were  both  opening  into  the  grand- 
eur and  glory  of  a  new  and  happier  life.  In  the 
improvement  of  the  natural  surroundings  the 
change  was  one  of  great  interest,  and  most  accept- 
able to  me.  A  lovelier  spot  in  all  that  country,  if 
indeed  in  any  other,  could  hardly  be  found.  Its 
beauty  even  surpassed  that  of  the  home  on  the 
hill-side,  in  the  old  yellow  farm-house.  The  Big 
Neshaminy  was  to  be  my  welcome  companion 
again.  Its  serpentine  form  I  was  to  trace,  its  fish 
I  was  to  bait  and  ensnare,  while  its  old,  bold  roar 
was  to  gladden  my  heart  and  quicken  my  spirits 
again.  It  was  but  a  few  moments'  walk  from  the 
old  stone  house  which  was  to  become  our  home, 
and  its  merry  music  was  ever  within  reach  of  my 
listening  ear.  A  large,  beautiful  mill-pond  was 
near  by,  and  stretched  out  within  the  easy  scope 
of  vision  and  of  call.  It  spread  out  its  placid 
waters  to  the  west  and  south  as  one  grand  scene 
of  loveliness  and  beauty.  Toward  the  north-east 
the  Pennsylvania  Railroad  passed  our  home  from 
the  south-west,  separated  only  by  a  ten-acre  field. 
The  daily  dashing  of  the  train  and  the  frequent 


A  NEW  BROTHER  AND  A  NEW  HOME.      59 

sounding  of  the  voice  of  steam  were  welcome  com- 
panions by  day  and  by  night,  and  never  could  I 
weary  of  the  sight  of  the  one  or  the  sound  of  the  oth- 
er. The  station  of  New  Brittain  was  within  a  few 
minutes'  walk  of  our  door,  and  ever  a  center  of 
living  interest  to  me.  Of  these  railroad  scenes  the 
busy  world  can  never  grow  weary,  and  those  most 
engaged  can  stop  for  a  moment's  gaze. 

Standing  by  the  station  one  day,  I  noticed  the  pe- 
culiar motions  of  a  stranger  as  he  cautiously  alighted 
and  kept  careful  hold  of  a  boyish  hand.  In  another 
moment  my  heart  was  welling  over  with  sympa- 
thy for  hira.  I  was  looking  for  the  first  time  in 
my  life  upon  one  who  was  blind.  The  lovely  vis- 
ion of  nature  and  of  life  has  passed  forever  from 
his  gaze.  Oh,  how  my  heart  melted  in  pity  for 
him.  How  I  longed  to  give  him  for  a  time  the 
sight  of  my  own  eyes,  or  at  least  the  light  and  the 
luster  of  one.  I  am  sure  that  in  that  moment  I 
would  gladly  have  shared  the  glory  of  vision  with 
him.  While  I  thought  how  terrible  must  be  his 
gloom,  and  how  desponding  must  be  his  heart,  it 
did  not  in  the  most  remote  manner  enter  my  mind 
that  I  ever  should  be  blind,  and  that  I,  like  him, 
should  ever  seek  the  friendly  hand  to  guide  my 
weary  feet.  How  blessed  that  we  know  so  little 
of  the  future;  that  its  dark  ways  are  so  obscur- 
ed, or  rather  illumed,  with  bright  visions  which 


60  THE    LIGHT    OF   OTHER   DAYS. 

are  never  to  know  a  living  reality.  What  a  load 
my  heart  would  have  carried  from  that  hour  ha(l 
God  commissioned  that  man  to  say  to  me,  "Thou 
shalt  in  early  years  to  come  be  blind  thyself,  and, 
like  me,  shall  seek  the  guidance  of  another."  A 
gracious  Providence  spared  me  the  prophecy,  and 
kept  my  soul  in  ignorance  of  the  vision  and  the 
reality.  I  was  to  become  blind!  Dreadful  truth! 
But  God  showed  me  his  tender  mercy  in  withhold- 
ing from  my  thought  the  solemn  fact  of  that  per- 
petual night  into  which  my  sun  of  day  was  soon 
to  sink.  We  know  enough  of  the  future,  and  we 
do  well  to  wisely  improve  the  precious  present. 
We  know  not  what  a  day  may  bring  forth.  The 
future  shall  embosom  both  the  sunshine  and  the 
shadow;  and  with  the  tranquil  sky  shall  appear 
the  angry  storm.  It  is  much  to  know,  however, 
that  wherever  we  go  God  shall  lead  our  feet  and 
direct  our  way  if  we  but  consent.  This  blind  gen- 
tleman was  Professor  Dyer,  from  Philadelphia. 
He  had  come  to  our  village  for  a  series  of  concerts, 
and  his  home  was  to  be  at  our  house.  By  this 
means  I  became  well  acquainted  with  him,  only, 
however,  to  realize  an  increased  sympathy  for  his 
hapless  condition. 

In  the  little  village  surrounding  the  station,  as 
a  grandly  conspicuous  object,  was  a  large  stone 
meeting-house,  owned  by,  and  wherein  worshiped, 


A  NEW  BROTHER  AND  A  NEW  HOME.      61 

a  Baptist  congregation.  Connected  with  the  house 
was  an  immense — or  so  it  seemed  then  to  me — 
burial-ground.  The  congregation,  and  indeed  the 
country  about  for  a  circuit  of  many  miles,  here 
gathered  and  buried  their  precious  dead.  The  old 
white  tomb-stones  were  at  first  a  solemn  scene  as 
T  gazed  upon  them  from  my  home;  but  after  a 
time,  with  their  solemnity  there  seemed  to  com- 
mingle a  real  beauty.  I  cared  not  for  the  near  ap- 
proach, but  as  I  withdrew  to  a  distance  there  was 
a  charm  in  their  appearance.  Many  a  soul  has 
been  uplifted  by  the  solemn  and  ghost-like  mon- 
uments of  the  sleeping  dead,  whose  names  and 
deeds  they  commemorate.  Though  they  seem  to 
keep  watch  over  sacred  dust,  yet  upward  do  they 
lift  the  finerer  of  solemn  silence  to  the  soul  of  the 
passer-by.  The  church-house  was  large,  and  would 
accommodate  the  entire  surrounding  neighborhood. 
It  was  the  only  church  of  the  village,  and  was 
destined  to  become  a  center  of  special  interest  to 
me.  Against  the  Baptists  I  had  a  feeling  of  special 
prejudice ;  and  had  I  been  called  to  express  their 
characteristics,  I  should  have  used  but  two  words 
— exclusive  and  selfish.  But  I  was  getting  out  of 
the  narrow  circle  of  a  single  creed,  and  was  fast 
learning  that  the  world  was  exceeding  broad,  and 
that  in  religion,  as  in  nature,  there  was  a  wonder- 
ful and  beautiful  variety.     Morever,  I  was  coming 


62  THE    LIGHT    OF   OTHER   DAYS. 

into  a  field  of  observation,  study,  and  real  life  that 
was  to  entirely  change  many  narrow  notions  and 
crude  convictions  of  my  other  days 

I  also  was  to  be  able  to  hear  preaching  every 
Sabbath,  and  even  twice  a  day.  The  first  Sabbath 
after  our  arrival  at  our  new  home  I  went  to  hear 
Rev.  Mr.  "Wheat,  the  minister  in  charge.  "Well  do 
I  remember  both  the  text,  and  the  impression  pro- 
duced by  the  sermon  :  "  A  bruised  reed  shall  he 
not  break,  and  the  smoking  flax  shall  he  not 
quench."  From  this  text  he  preached  as  I  thought 
I  had  never  heard  preaching  before.  I  felt  as 
though  his  piercing  black  eyes  were  fixed  on  me, 
and  that  they  penetrated  to  the  inmost  depths  of 
my  secret  soul.  I  actually  shrunk  behind  the  pil- 
lars that  supported  the  gallery,  gratified,  too,  for 
the  protection  they  aftbrded  me.  I  certainly  had 
never  heard  a  sermon  that  seemed  so  intended  for 
and  80  directly  aimed  at  me.  Nevertheless,  I  was 
deeply  interested,  and  much  enjoyed  the  service. 
There  was  a  warmth  in  his  manners  and  a  direct- 
ness in<iiis  words  that  impressed  me  deeply,  and 
carried  conviction  to  my  heart.  I  thought  much 
of  that  sermon  in  my  homeward  walk,  and  only 
as  I  sunk  into  sleep  could  I  cease  the  reflections 
awakened  by  it.  I  looked  forward  to  the  coming 
Sabbath  with  great  interest,  and  longed  for  the 
tardy  revolutions  of  the  week  to  pass  and  be  gone. 


ALMOST   PERSUADED.  68 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

ALMOST    PERSUADED. 

At  the  morning  Sabbath-school  I  gathered  with 
the  rest,  though  a  stranger  to  all.  However,  I  felt 
at  home  from  the  general  friendliness  of  the  peo- 
ple, the  peculiar  sanctity  of  the  place,  and  the 
kindly  disposition  of  the  scholars.  I  was  placed 
in  a  Bible-class  of  boys  of  my  own  age,  under  the 
care  of  a  Mr.  S.,  a  genial,  middle-aged  gentleman. 
I  became  deeply  interested  at  once  in  this  gentle- 
man, from  his  cordial  expressions  of  friendly  feel- 
ing and  from  his  special  interest  in  my  personal 
case  religiously.  The  Bible  alone  was  the  text- 
book of  our  class;  and  most  thoroughly  did  we 
study  it.  In  a  most  friendly  manner  would  the 
teacher  address  each  scholar  personally,  and  by  a 
singular  and  yet  pleasing  method  draw  from  us  a 
sort  of  review  of  our  general  thought  and  conduct 
for  the  week.  His  one  anxiety  seemed  to  be  that 
his  scholars  should  become  Christians.  Nor  was 
this  anxiety  expressed  in  a  bold  and  objectionable 
manner.     He  oftended  none  by  this  anxious  look 


64  THE   LIGHT   OF   OTHER   DAYS. 

into  our  life,  but  gained  steadily  on  the  affection 
of  all.  Ou  the  street  he  would  ever  recognize  us, 
give  us  his  cordial  word,  and  perhaps  inquire  how 
we  were  spending  our  time,  and  if  we  took  time 
for  prayer. 

We  knew  that  we  were  the  subjects  of  his  daily 
prayer,  according  to  his  own  assurance;  and  this 
very  fact,  as  it  came  to  our  minds  by  day  and  by 
night,  strongly  impressed  us.  His  spirit  was  fa- 
therly and  cordial;  and  never  did  a  teacher,  I  am 
sure,  have  a  stronger  hold  on  the  affection  of  his 
scholars.  The  superintendent,  Mr.  S.,  was  also  a 
gentlemanly  Christian,  and  displayed,  as  I  now 
see  and  remember,  a  wonderful  interest,  both  in  the 
general  school  and  the  particular  scholars  of  the 
school.  If  he  did  occupy  a  higher  place,  yet  he 
was  about  as  near  and  dear  to  us  as  were  our  teach- 
ers. I  had  a  feeling,  which  I  am  now  sure  was 
generally  shared  by  the  scholars,  that  he  had  a  spe- 
cial, personal  interest  in  each,  and  that  each  largely 
shared  his  friendship  and  love.  On  the  street,  by 
the  brook  or  railway,  wherever,  indeed,  we  met 
him,  be  had  for  us  a  kindly  look  and  a  friendly 
word.  Many  a  time  he  has  taken  a  seat  by  my 
side  and  discoursed  to  me,  in  a  simple  and  familiar 
manner,  about  the  sublimity  of  nature,  the  beau- 
ties of  revelation,  and  the  well-being  of  my  soul. 
He  would  call  at  my  home,  as  would  also  my  teach- 


ALMOST   PERSUADED.  65 

er,  and  thereby  seek  to  interest  both  myself  and 
my  father's  family  in  the  work  of  the  Sabbath- 
school.  The  congregation  of  this  church,  too,  had 
a  great  many  personal  workers;  and  by  their  kind- 
ly approaches  I  was  made  to  feel  a  new  interest  in 
myself,  and  a  new  interest  also  in  the  world  in 
which  I  lived.  A  special  eifort  was  made  to  bring 
the  scholars  of  the  school  into  the  prayer-meet- 
ings; and  it  was  no  nnusual  thing  for  the  teachers 
to  call  for  their  scholars  and  conduct  them  to  the 
house  of  the  Lord. 

Adjacent  to  the  meeting-house,  and  within  the 
church-yard,  was  an' artificial  pool,  fed  from  a  bub- 
bling spring  high  up  on  the  hill -side.  This  pool 
was  used  for  baptismal  services  generally,  although 
at  some  seasons  of  the  year  they  would  retire  to 
the  Big  Neshaminy,  and  under  the  pleasant  shade 
of  the  giant  sycamores  perform  the  baptismal  rite. 
I  had  witnessed  baptism  in  two  different  forms  be- 
fore coming  to  this  place,  and  it  seemed  very 
strange  to  me  that  still  another  form  for  the  same 
rite  could  be  in  use.  I  had  now  an  opportunity  to 
Avitness  the  rite  in  a  third  form.  Some  half  dozen 
candidates  were  to  be  immersed,  and  I  certainly 
was  among  the  most  interested  of  the  spectators. 
As  they  went  under  the  water  I  could  not  but  feel 
that  they  were  indeed  buried  in  the  likeness  of  the 
Savior's  burial;  and  as  they  came  up  from  the  bap- 


66  THE   LIGHT    OF   OTHER  DATS. 

tismal  grave  it  impressively  reminded  me  of  the 
Savior's  resurrection.  It  did  not  seem  to  me  that 
there  was  too  much  water  for  the  baptismal  rite; 
nor  could  I  see  any  reason  why,  when  once  im- 
mersed, they  should  be  buried  twice  more.  There 
was  to  me  a  remarkable  beauty  and  simplicity  in  the 
form ;  and  I  felt  much  surprised  that  all  the  world 
could  not  see  it  as  correct,  and  adopt  it  as  such. 
Young  as  I  was,  the  witnessing  of  this  act  had 
made  me  a  convert  to  the  mode.  These  baptisms 
were  of  common  occurrence,  and  to  me  they  ever 
seemed  beautifully  solemn  and  strangely  impressive. 
I  ever  longed  for  their  recurrence,  and  often  wish- 
ed that  I  was  among  the  candidates. 

By  a  strange  and  terrible  providence  the  ship 
fever,  as  it  was  called,  was  introduced  into  our 
neighborhood,  and  within  a  few  days  an  entire 
family  of  some  ten  persons  were  prostrated  by  it 
and  swept  into  the  gra%"e.  Besides,  several  other 
families  suft'ered  severely ;  so  that  in  the  course  of 
two  weeks  twenty  or  more  persons  were  hurried 
into  eternity.  It  is  not  strange  that  a  wonderful 
solemnity  settled  upon  the  church  and  the  people 
generally.  I  was  certainly  never  so  wrought  upon 
in  my  life.  To  witness  these  burials,  so  near  to 
my  own  door  and  with  such  alarming  frequency, 
led  me  to  realize  the  near  approach  of  time  and 
eternity,  and  to  feel  the  importance  of  an  early 


ALMOST   PERSUADED.  67 

and  immediate  preparation.  The  minister  became 
more  earnest,  the  prayer-meetings  more  solemn, 
and  soon  a  revival  state  existed  in  the  church  and 
neighborhood.  Several  of  my  mates  confessed 
Christ  at  the  altar  of  prayer  and  in  the  waters  of 
baptism.  The  appeals  of  the  faithful  minister 
touched  and  moved  me  greatly.  He  would  come 
down  the  aisle  and  talk  personally  with  us ;  and 
often  he  would  kneel  by  our  side  and  pray  directly 
and  most  fervently  for  us.  Many  followed  him 
to  the  altar  and  accepted  the  gracious  ofters  of  sal- 
vation. How  happy  I  thought  them,  and  how  in 
my  heart  I  envied  them.  1  would  have  advised 
the  entire  audience  to  go  and  join  them  at  the  altar 
in  their  confession.  They  were  but  doing  what  I 
longed  to  do ;  they  had  come  to  a  determination 
which  for  myself  I  was  seeking  to  establish.  I 
felt  that  the  decision  was  not  with  me;  it  was  not 
in  my  power.  The  minister,  superinfendent,  teach- 
er, members,  and  even  my  own  mates,  were  per- 
sonally appealing  to  and  entreating  with  me.  They 
were  but  acting  in  perfect  harmony  with  my  own 
feelings.  Wishing  every  one  else  to  go,  of  course 
I  wished  and  longed  myself  to  go.  Personal  ap- 
peal was  not  necessary  in  my  case ;  but  permission 
Avas.  To  solve  the  problem  I  naturally  turned  to 
my  parents,  and  yet  with  more  than  half  a  fear 
that  I  should  not  have  their  conaent.     They  were 


68  THE   LIGHT   OF   OTHER  DAYS. 

Presbyterians,  and  could  not  willingly  con* 
sent  that  their  child  sljoald  become  a  Baptist. 
They  failed  to  fan  the  spark  of  desire  within  me 
into  a  flame  of  devotion.  1  would  have  given  a 
world,  as  I  felt,  could  they  have  heartily  approved 
the  revival  work  and  consented  to  my  share  in  the 
same.  A  single  word  of  encouragement  in  that 
direction  would  have  sent  me  to  the  altar  and 
numbered  me  then  and  there  among  the  followers 
of  the  Lamb  of  God.  As  much  as  I  longed  to  go, 
I  could  not  against  their  wish  and  without  their 
consent.  I  felt  that  I  should  enter,  and  that  hence- 
forth my  study  should  be  with  the  ministry  in  view. 

The  theological  school  was  almost  constantly  a 
vision  before  me,  and  seemed  a  step  in  the  road 
that  God  would  have  me  travel.  My  parents  were 
honest  in  their  convictions  and  prejudices  beyond 
question,  aiivl  while  withholding  their  encourage- 
ment felt  conscientious  and  justifiable.  I  have 
never  indulged  in  any  reflections  against  them,  and 
have  never  felt  a  particle  less  of  love  for  them  for 
the  course  they  pursued.  However,  could  they 
have  shared  my  feelings  and  seconded  my  desire,  it 
would  have  proved  the  greatest  possible  good  to 
them  and  ten  thousand  blessings  for  me. 

Parents  should  watch  for  the  first  signs  of  the 
religious  life,  and  give  every  possible  encourage- 
ment to  its  development.     Salvation  may  hardly 


ALMOST   PERSUADED.  69 

<5ome  at  too  tender  an  age,  while  the  child-convert 
is  quite  as  sure  to  honor  his  profession  and  prove 
a  good,  steadfast  soldier  as  converts  of  maturer 
age  and  experience.  Consecration  at  the  altar  will 
do  more  than  all  things  else  to  fix  the  habits  of  the 
child  and  to  save  him  from  the  withering  tempta- 
tions of  life.  If  in  any  period  of  life  he  needs  the 
helps  of  religion,  it  is  during  the  tempestuous  days 
of  youth.  Carr}^  him  up  to  manhood  within  daily 
sight  of  the  altar,  and  within  daily  hearing  of 
the  voice  of  prayer  before  the  altar,  and  his  safety 
is  almost  assured.  Of  the  criminals  of  London  it 
has  been  ascertained  that  ninety-seven  per  cent  be- 
came what  they  were  before  reaching  the  age  of 
twenty-one  years.  Thus,  it  is  seen,  habits  of  crim- 
inality are  formed  in  youth,  the  very  season,  too, 
when  the  heart  is  most  easily  reached  for  Jesus. 
If  Satan  seeks  pupils  for  his  school  and  servants 
for  his  work  among  those  of  tender  years,  surely 
the  church  should  not  pass  the  lambs  while  seek- 
ing disciples  for  its  Master. 


70  THE  LIGHT   OF    OTHER  DATS. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

CITY   COMPANY. 

The  romantic  nature  of  our  present  situation, 
together  with  the  roominess  of  our  home  accom- 
modations, determined  my  parents  to  advertise  for 
summer  boarders  from  the  city.  Soon  applications 
for  entertainment  came  in  from  a  large  number  of 
parties;  and  during  the  summer  months  we  ac- 
commodated an  average  of  twenty  or  more  ladies 
and  gentlemen.  They  were  generally  from  the 
higher  social  stations  of  life,  and  were  most  excel- 
lent company,  as  one  may  imagine.  I  soon  be- 
came deeply  interested  in  them,  and  was,  uncon- 
sciously to  myself,  wonderfully  influenced  by  them. 
How  far  they  shaped  my  future  I  could  hardly 
tell.  I  was  general  errand-boy  for  the  company, 
and  was  pilot,  usually,  for  their  boating,  fishing,, 
riding,  and  rambling  excursions.  As  a  rule  they 
were  not  of  a  spiritual  class,  and  did  not  seek  the 
country  air  and  sports  for  the  mere  cultivation  of 
the  spiritual.  With  them  they  brought  their  light 
and  trashy  literature,  also  cards,  and  other  games. 
Their  literature  I  read,  their  games  I  saw,  and 
their  influence  upon  me  may  better  be  imagined 


CITY   COMPANY.  71 

than  told.  Seeds  were  sown  that  yielded,  as  we 
shall  see,  bitter  fruitage  for  many  years.  I  culti- 
vated the  habit  of  foolish  reading,  of  course, 
and  soon  the  company  failed  to  furnish  all  that  I 
required.  In  search  of  novels,  I  ransacked  the 
neighborhood,  and  for  their  purchase  I  spent  the 
few  dimes  I  earned.  Tales  of  ocean  life  and  bor- 
der reminiscences  were  my  delight ;  and  during  the 
long  hours  of  many  a  night  have  I  read  and  spec- 
ulated over  the  pages  of  fancy  fiction.  Home  be- 
gan to  lose  its  charms,  and  I  wished  myself  an 
adventurer  among  the  homeless  sons  of  men. 

Amid  almost  perfect  happiness  I  looked  forth 
into  the  deep,  dark  world  for  what  it  had  not  to 
give.  A  mother's  daily  love,  a  father's  kindly 
words,  the  sweet,  innocent  affection  of  a  baby 
brother  and  darling  sisters — all  of  these,  combined 
with  many  another  blessing,  could  not  lend  charms 
enough  to  the  life  I  wished  to  lead.  Like  many 
another  foolish  youth,  I  would  go  forth  from  all 
alone.  1  would  be  a  wanderer  among  men,  an  ad- 
venturer among  heroes;  and  I  would  have  both 
fortune  and  renown  as  my  reward.  I  ventured  to 
unfold  my  dreams  to  my  mother,  and  make  known 
to  her  my  wish ;  but  no  consent  was  given  to  my 
crazy  purposes.  Then,  like  a  hero,  I  resolved  to 
go,  even  if  against  the  wishes  and  pleadings  of 
those  who  loved  me  best.    Had  not  others  gone 


72  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

forth  under  the  protecting  shades  of  night  alone? 
So,  too,  could  I.  If  I  could  be  free  in  no  other 
way,  I  would  run  away.  The  seeds  of  fiction  were 
ripening  in  my  heart,  and  I  was  reaching  forth  the 
sickle  to  reap  the  grain. 

My  school  advantages  had  now  become  better 
than  ever  before.  Excellent  teachers  and  a  good 
system  of  instruction  were  aflbrded  me,  while  my 
own  age  and  strength  were  all  to  my  advantage  in 
my  study.  I  could  now  see  out  somewhat  far  into 
the  earthly  life;  could  understand  somewhat  bet- 
ter the  nature  and  obligations  of  man's  earthly  ca- 
reer, and  had  risen  to  a  degree  beyond  many  of 
the  trifling  and  foolish  habits  of  boyhood.  Could 
I  have  put  my  attention  upon  my  studies,  I  should 
have  made  rapid  progress,  as  I  needed  to.  But  I 
had  lost  nearly  all  interest  in  the  work  of  the  school. 
Other  matters  were  now  distracting  my  mind  and 
claiming  my  attention.  I  did  not  feel  at  home  in 
the  school-room ;  I  wished  to  be  outside,  and  away 
from  its  duties.  I  felt,  young  as  I  was,  that  I  was 
needed  elsewhere;  and  I  would  be  free,  that  I 
might  go.  I  was  a  student  simply  from  compul- 
sion, and  felt  little  interest  longer  in  the  perfect 
lesson.  I  was  neither  ambitious  to  excel  nor 
ashamed  of  my  failure  to  master  my  studies  and 
equal  the  proficiency  of  my  mates. 

The  church  was  no  longer  the  favorite  resort 
that  it  had  been  in  other  days.    The  services  made 


CITY   COMPANY.  "^  73 

little  impression  upou  my  mind,  and  attendance 
upon  them  was  really  not  for  the  lessons  they  in- 
culcated. My  heart  was  no  longer  susceptible  to 
those  hallowed  influences  which  had  once  aroused 
it,  while  the  man  of  God,  who  ministered  at  the 
altar,  was  not  now  possessed  of  the  wonderful 
power  over  me  he  once  wielded.  I  dreaded  now, 
also,  to  attend  the  sanctuary,  while  the  Sabbath- 
school  had  lost  nearly  all  of  its  charms.  The  les- 
son did  not  impress  me  as  formerly,  nor  did  I  wish 
it  should.  Other  lessons  interested  me  more.  The 
servants  of  the  Master  I  cared  not  to  meet,  and 
whenever  possible  I  avoided  their  presence.  If 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street  from  me,  I  felt 
best  satisfied,  and  would  often  give  myself  the  ben- 
efit of  that  degree  of  distance. 

Spring  had  come  again,  and  ligature  once  more 
was  crowning  herself  in  lovely  attire.  Still,  its 
beauties  did  not  attract  me  as  formerly.  I  was 
losing  my  relish  for  even  the  lovely  scenes  of  the 
Big  Neshamiuy  valley.  I  felt  sure  that  nature 
was  as  lovely  everywhere,  and  that  the  world  liad 
many  charms  of  which  I  had  not  even  dreamed. 
Why  should  I  not  see  them  and  share  in  the  rich- 
ness of  their  glory?  "Why  should  I  remain  a  pris- 
oner forever  within  my  father's  door-yard?  Was 
not  the  world  wide,  and  was  there  not  room  for 
me  outside  the  charming  vale  of  my  nativity  ? 


74         '*"  THE   LIGHT   OF   OTHER  DATS. 


CHAPTER  XYl. 

EXCITING   NEAVS. 

My  father's  commou  custom  of  an  evening  was 
to  adjust  his  spectacles  and  read  aloud  to  the  fam- 
ily. He  was  a  good  reader,  and  we  were  all  good 
listeners.  We  had  the  usual  variety  of  good  liter- 
ature, with  the  weekly  and  daily  news ;  and  the 
times  were  just  exciting  enough  to  command  the 
closest  attention  to  all  that  was  read.  Lincoln  had 
been  elected  to  the  highest  oiEce  of  the  nation; 
and  many  had  been  the  speculations  as  to  whether 
he  would  safely  reach  his  destination  or  pass  the  or- 
deal of  inauguration.  In  passing  to  Washington  he 
had  seemed  to  run  the  guantlet  of  assassins'  knives, 
while  the  nation  almost  held  its  breath  in  daily 
and  hourly  fear  for  his  security.  A  few  days  only 
had  passed  since  his  inaugural  when  the  nation 
knew  that  efforts  were  being  made  to  revictual  the 
forts  of  the  South.  This  was  what  the  Govern- 
ment had  a  perfect  right  to  do,  and  what  it  was 
bound  in  honor  to  its  soldiery  to  do.  But  this  was 
accepted  as  a  cause  of  war  by  the  already  organ- 
ized Confederacy ;  and  orders  were  issued  for  the 


EXCITING  NEWS.  7& 

bombardment  of  Fort  Sumter,  in  Charleston  har- 
bor. April  12th  the  bombardment  began;  and 
within  thirty-six  hours  the  fort  was  subdued,  and 
the  little  garrison  of  seventy  men,  under  the  brave 
Robert  Anderson,  marched  forth  from  its  battered 
walls,  saluted  their  honored  flag,  and  shipped  for 
the  North. 

This,  perhaps  on  the  evening  of  the  14th  of 
April,  1861,  was  the  news  read  by  my  father.  The 
head-lines  of  the  announcement  ring  yet  in  my 
ears  as  pronounced  by  him  in  his  excited  spirit 
and  tones:  "Our  Flag  Insulted!  The  War 
Actually  Begun  !  Fort  Sumter  Bombarded  by  the 
Rebels!"  I  jumped  to  his  side,  that  I  might  both 
see  and  hear  all.  My  mother  dropped  her  work 
and  looked  up  with  a  face  tilled  with  astonishment. 
My  sisters  crouched,  as  if  in  fear,  at  his  feet.  The 
headings  were  read  again  and  again,  with  the  fuller 
dispatches  below.  No  other  news  could  be  read, 
and  the  paper  was  dropped  for  speculation,  indig- 
nation, and  regrets.  I  took  the  paper  and  read 
over  and  over  again  what  I  already  could  have 
repeated  word  by  word.  But  words  never  had 
such  a  flaming  look  to  me  before.  I  could  not  be- 
lieve them  real.  Was  war,  of  which  I  had  heard  my 
parents  speak  so  often,  war,  that  horror  of  the 
past,  actually  within  the  present,  my  own  day,  and 
within  our  own  land?    And  was  this  war  inaugu- 


T6  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHEK    DAYS. 

rated  among  our  own  people — American  against 
American?  How  horrible!  And  yet  amid  the 
actual  horror  of  this  scene  I  felt  a  relief,  such  as 
had  not  come  to  me  in  all  my  life.  Xow  I  coukl 
get  away  from  home.  I,  too,  could  be  a  soldier  and 
go  forth  to  battle  with  the  brave.  Joy  took  th-e 
place  of  sadness  and  despondency  in  a  single  mo- 
ment. I  was  willing  to  have  my  prison  door 
opened,  even  with  the  gory  key  of  war.  The 
rebels  of  Charleston  would  rescue  me  from  my 
own  home!  Did  any  boy  ever  before  have  such 
•crazy  thoughts  ?  Was  ever  another  cliild  so  fool- 
ish as  I?  I  had  access  to  the  daily  news,  which  I 
read  Avith  avidity;  and  I  hailed  with  exceeding 
ioy  the  call  of  the  president  for  75,000  troops. 
Captain  (afterward  colonel)  Davis,  editor  of  the 
Doylestown  Democrat,  was  authorized  to  raise  a 
company  for  three  months.  I  wished  in  my  heart 
to  enlist,  but  dared  not  offer  myself,  supposing  I 
would  not  be  accepted.  How,  now,  I  wished  for 
more  years,  greater  strength,  and  riper  experience. 
I  envied  a  man,  or  even  one  who  approached  the 
proportions  of  manhood.  I  felt  that  every  one 
should  go,  and  wondered  that  any  man  could  be 
induced  to  remain  at  home.  The  company  was 
soon  full,  and  no  more  would  be  received.  The 
day  of  departure  came ;  the  train  for  their  convey- 
ance from  Doylestown  was  ready  to  start.     The 


EXCITING  NEWS.  77 

solemnity  of  death  as  I  had  never  before  experi- 
enced it  seemed  to  settle  on  all.  Wives  were  wail- 
ing ;  mothers  were  weeping ;  sisters  were  agonizing 
beside  their  loved  ones.  This  was  a  scene  I  did 
not  expect,  and  for  which  I  was  not  prepared.  I 
had  never  before  witnessed  anything  that  so  touch- 
ed my  heart.  I  cotild  hardly  understand  why  strong 
men  and  women  should  so  bow  bown  with  grief 
on  such  an  occasion.  But  I  knew  not  then  the 
deep  love  wherewith  heart  loved  heart,  nor  the 
meaning  of  the  tender  relationships  of  life.  I 
could  not  but  weep  with  those  who  wept ;  and  yet 
I  silently  wished  myself  among  those  for  whom 
those  tears  were  being  shed.  I  could  have  con- 
sented that  moment  to  place  myself  among  the 
soldiery  and  gaze  upon  scalding  tears  in  yearning 
love  for  myself  from  the  eyes  of  my  own  devoted 
parents.  I  hoped  in  my  heart  that  the  war  would 
not  close  until  I  had  age  and  strength  for  a  soldier. 
The  captain,  who  was  still  editor  of  the  Doylestown 
Democrat,  weekly  forwarded  communications  from 
his  camp,  recounting  the  services  and  the  experi- 
ences of  the  men.  In  this  I  was  profoundly  inter- 
ested, and  in  their  perusal  I  felt  myself  transported 
to  the  front  and  transformed  into  a  soldier.  How 
happy  I  thought  him,  and  to  me  how  favored 
seemed  he  and  his  men.  To  me  each  man  was 
a  hero,  one  to  whom  I  could  have  done  humblest 
reverence  and  yielded  richest  service. 


78  THE    LIGHT    OF   OTHER   DAYS. 

The  city  company  returned  again  for  the  sum- 
iner,  and  the  excitement  of  their  presence  was 
greater  than  ever.  In  their  company  I  felt  some- 
what reconciled  to  home.  They  brought  with 
them  the  usual  variety  of  literature;  and  in  their 
genial  intelligence  they  commented  on  the  exciting 
events  of  the  camp  and  Held,  and  the  home  and 
foreign  interests  in  our  war.  Their  patriotic  ex- 
pressions but  served  to  lire  my  own  military  spirit 
to  fever  heat.  I  could  not  but  listen  intently  to 
their  talk,  and  yet  it  but  crazed  me  for  a  sliare  in 
the  fray.  I  felt  that  I  was  a  coward,  to  remain  at 
home  and  in  security  while  others  fought  and  bled 
and  died.  With  avidity  I  read  everything  from 
the  front ;  and  the  graphic  descriptions  of  the  bat- 
tle scenes  were  most  enjoyable  to  me.  How  indig- 
nant I  felt  toward  the  foes  of  our  men  in  blue,  and 
how  deeply  sympathetic  for  the  soldiers  of  our 
ranks.  Instinctively  I  would  grind  my  teeth  with 
rage,  and  reach  forth  my  hand  for  aid  to  our  falter- 
ing fellows.  In  the  flesh  I  was  at  home;  in  spirit, 
in  the  camp  and  upon  the  battle-field.  I  tried  to 
drown  my  restrained  feelings  in  the  trashy  litera- 
ture of  our  company,  and  by  day  and  night  I  read 
the  pages  of  foolish  fiction.  '  And  yet,  in  the  midst 
of  the  most  fascinating  story,  I  would  dash  the 
paper  down  and  reach  forth  both  hands  with  a 
bound  for  the  news  from  the  front.     A  first  perusal 


EXCITINa  NEWS.  79 

never  seemed  to  satisfy  me.  Again  and  again 
would  I  run  the  columns  over.  The  old  news  was 
ever  fresh  until  that  of  the  coming  day  was  safe 
in  hand. 

A  lady  friend  among  our  company  noticing  my 
intense  interest  in  the  war-news  of  the  hour,  and 
knowing  how  ardently  I  longed  for  the  soldier's 
life,  presented  me  with  a  neat  soldier-cap.  I 
donned  it  with  pride,  and  conceived  myself  fairly 
crowned  at  last.  I  felt  myself  a  soldier,  and 
thought  more  than  ever  of  the  soldier's  life.  I  ad- 
mired the  gift,  but  most  to  see  my  head  in  a  sol- 
dier's cap.  I  felt  that  it  was  a  surrender  of  my- 
self in  the  eyes  of  my  friends  and  comrades  to  the 
cause  of  my  country,  and  that  somehow  I  was 
but  honoring  the  men  I  loved  by  wearing  a  cap 
like  theirs. 

And  now  the  three  months  for  which  our  men 
were  enlisted  had  expired,  and  it  was  announced 
that  they  would  return  home.  I  longed  to  see 
them,  and  yet  I  hated  to  have  them  come.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  their  coming  back  was  but  the 
signal  for  the  closing  of  the  war.  As  indignant 
as  I  felt  toward  the  rebel,  I  did  not  somehow  wish 
him  to  lay  down  the  arms  of  his  rebellion.  The 
return  of  the  three-months  pien  dried  many  tears 
and  occasioned  much  joy.  But  few  had  died,  and 
nearly  all  returned  as  sound  as  ever.    They  were 


80  THE  LIGHT   OF   OTHER  DAYS. 

for  the  time  the  heroes  of  the  neighborhood ;  and 
their  description  of  personal  encounters  and  perilous 
scenes  were  animating  and  exciting  to  the  eager 
crowd  of  listeners.  I  never  wearied  of  their  sto- 
ries, and  longed  more  than  ever  to  see  and  do  what 
they  had  seen  and  done.  K"early  all,  too,  soon 
longed  for  further  service,  and  their  dissatisfaction 
and  discontent  hut  made  me  more  nervous  and  un- 
easy. 


MORE   RECRUITS   FOR   THE   WAR.  81 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

MORE   RECRUITS   FOR  THE    WAR. 

In  September,  Captain  (now  colonel)  Davis  be- 
gan to  raise  a  regiment  of  men  for  the  war,  or  for 
three  years.  His  camp  was  established  at  Doyles- 
town,  within  four  miles  of  my  present  home,  and 
where  I  had  formerly  lived.  Soon  after  its  estab- 
lishment I  visited  camp.  This  I  thought  next 
thing  to  enlisting  as  a  soldier,  and  withal  I  thought 
it  a  desirable  place  to  be.  I  would  therefor  in- 
stantly have  exchanged  the  comforts  and  conven- 
iences of  my  own  home — a  bed  of  down  for  the 
barrack  of  a  soldier.  What  made  me  more  inter- 
ested in  the  camp  and  the  life  of  a  soldier  from 
this  moment  was  the  presence  of  my  uncle  in 
camp.  I  was  rejoiced  to  see  him  here.  I  felt  now 
that  I  was  at  least  related  to  the  grand  army  of 
the  nation,  and  that  his  presence  in  the  camp  was 
an  excuse  for  and  a  commendation  of  my  own  feel- 
ings and  wishes.  If  heretofore  I  had  felt  any 
compunctions  of  conscience,  they  now  entirely  dis- 
appeared.    If  an  uncle  could  become  a  soldier  and 


82  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

leave  friends  and  family,  it  was  certainly  right  that 
I  should  desire  to  become  one  myself.  Thus  I  felt 
that  the  prospect  was  brightening  for  me,  and  new 
joy  was  enkindled  in  my  breast.  Soon  I  paid  the 
camp  a  second  visit,  and  was  delighted  to  find  that 
a  Mr.  Hargrove,  whom  I  knew,  was  enlisting  boys 
for  the  service  of  drummers.  He  wished  twenty, 
and  had  already  obtained  some  three  or  four.  I 
went  home  drumming, — on  everything  I  drummed. 
How  nice,  thought  I,  to  be  a  drummer-boy.  Sure- 
ly I  was  old  enough  for  this  service,  for  some  al- 
ready enlisted  were  only  of  my  age.  If  I  could 
not  carry  the  gun  and  draw  the  saber,  I  could  use 
the  drum-sticks  in  calling  others  to  duty  and  in 
inspiring  them  in  their  valorous  work. 

A  company  of  men  now  came  from  Keading,  and 
with  them  a  band  of  musicians.  Gaining  permis- 
sion, I  went  again  to  the  camp,  which  now  began 
to  assume  a  truly  military  appearance.  I  was  de- 
lighted with  all  I  saw  and  with  what  I  heard.  The 
music  was  soul-stirring,  and  I  felt  myself  called 
to  duty  by  the  martial  strains.  I  was  electrified, 
and  felt  that  I  needed  but  one  thing  to  make  me 
perfectly  happy.  I  now  formed  the  resolution  that 
I  would  in  any  event  become  a  soldier  of  our  brave 
army.  Life  was  worth  nothing  to  me,  I  felt,  with- 
out the  gratification  of  this  wish.  I  must  go,  or  I 
must  pine  and  die  at  home.     Dn  reaching  home  I 


MORE   RECRUITS   FOR  THE   WAR.  83 

■expressed  my  wish  and  my  purpose  to  my  parents. 
They  expressed  complete  and  painful  surprise.  In 
tliis  I  was  disappointed.  I  knew  them  to  be  pa- 
triotic, and  that  they  commended  others  for  going. 
Why,  thought  I,  should  they  object  to  my  going, 
and  why  not  rejoice  in  my  purpose?  But  no ;  they 
absolutely  refused  to  entertain  even  a  thought  of 
such  a  thing.  But  notwithstanding  their  refusal,  I 
thought,  talked,  and  dreamed  of  war  and  my  owu 
service  as  a  soldier.  I  would  often  appeal  to  my 
father,  and  beg  his  consent.  He  deigned  to  reason 
with  me,  which  pained  me  less  than  his  emphatic 
refusals.  He  spoke  of  the  terrors  of  war,  the  suf- 
ferings of  the  wounded,  and  the  groans  of  the  dy- 
ing. He  spoke  of  the  crippled  soldiers  who  had, 
maimed  for  life,  come  forth  from  the  war  of  1812, 
and  the  more  recent  war  with  Mexico.  But  to  suf- 
fer on  the  tield  and  return  as  a  cripple  was  a  sort 
of  glory  that  I  felt  I  could  enjoy;  while  even  to 
die  a  soldier's  death  and  pass  down  to  an  unknown 
and  unmarked  grave  was  an  end  from  which  I 
thought  only  a  coward  should  shrink.  When 
one's  country  called  in  the  hour  of  its  peril,  what 
right  had  a  man  to  the  tranquil  peace  and  security 
of  his  own  fireside,  or  even  to  the  life  he  called 
his  owu. 

My  father  referred  to  the  opinion  of  a  Rev.  Mr. 
W.,  as  embodying  the  doubt  of  the  soldier's  salva- 


84  THE   LIGHT   OF   OTHER   DATS. 

tion.  Perhaps,  if  I  went  to  the  field,  I  would  sac- 
rifice both  my  life  of  earth  and  that  for  which  I 
hoped  in  heaven.  I  was  simply  indignant  at  the 
reverend  gentleman  for  expressing  such  an  opinion, 
and  was  in  no  wise  convinced  by  his  logic.  I  was 
willing  to  accept  every  chance  and  every  risk  of 
a  soldier,  and  felt  too  little  regard  for  the  conse- 
quences following  his  life,  either  here  or  hereafter. 
As  a  final  argument,  my  father  said — and  why,  I 
do  not  know,  and  could  not  then  understand, — that 
I  might  lose  my  sight ;  that  if  I  went  to  the  field  I 
might  return  from  the  service  blind.  This  sugges- 
tion made  an  impression  on  me  as  none  of  the 
other  arguments  had.  I  had  a  horror  of  the  very 
thing  suggested ;  and  perhaps  knowing"this,  and 
remembering  my  sympathy  for  the  blind  Professor 
Dyer,  he  thought  to  mention  the  thing. 

I,  however,  went  again  to  camp,  and  tried  to  en- 
list. They  would  not  accept  me  without  the  writ- 
ten consent  of  my  parents.  I  knew  too  well  that 
for  their  consent  I  could  not  hope.  I  had  now 
gone  as  far  as  I  could,  and  was  somewhat  quieted 
in  my  own  feelings.  If  the  Government  would 
not  have  me,  of  course  I  was  justified  in  remaining 
at  home.  Still  I  was  not  satisfied,  and  constantly 
hoped  on  as  before.  If  I  had  consented  to  stifle 
my  feelings,  I  could  not  long  have  repressed  them. 
Kecruiting  meetings  were  being  held  often  in  the 


MORE   RECRUITS  FOR  THE   WAR.  85 

Baptist  church  of  our  village ;  and  the  pastor,  Mr. 
Wheat,  was  an  earnest  advocate  of  enlistments. 
"Wliat  he  could  approve  I  felt  myself  justified  in. 
The  patriotic  flame  within  me  was  fanned  into  a 
furious  life. 

The  regiment  was  now  full,  and  a  flag  presenta- 
tion transpired.  How  grand  the  old  banner  seemed 
as  soldier  hands  unfurled  it,  and  as  soldier  hearts 
and  lips  honored  it  with  the  rousing  "  three  times 
three."  To  defend  the  flag,  and  if  need  be  to  die 
under  its  folds,  were  professions  that  but  endeared 
the  men  and  added  to  my  earnest  regard  for  their 
cause.  Their  parade,  with  music  floating  upon  the 
breeze,  with  perfect  step  to  the  time  of  their  tune, 
and  with  their  dear  banner  unfurled  for  the  kiss 
of  heaven,  endeared  them  to  my  heart,  and  but  in- 
creased my  longing  desire  to  be  one  with  them. 
What  an  inspiring  sight  was  that  of  their  march 
and  their  drill !  Who  could  behold  it  and  not  wish 
to  share  in  the  service,  so  honorable  in  the  eyes  of 
the  world  and  so  gloried  over  by  the  patriotic  of  the 
the  nation? 

After  the  parade  the  distribution  of  Testaments 
was  gone  through  with,  and  each  soldier  became 
possessed  of  the  precious  word.  How  fitting,  I 
thought,  for  men  who  are  to  battle  for  their  country 
to  possess,  also,  the  sword  of  the  Spirit.  I  was 
glad  to  see  this  distribution,  for  the  good  it  did 


86  THE   LIGHT    OF   OTHER   DAYS. 

tliose  who  gave  them  and  for  the  good  I  thought 
it  must  do  those  who  received  them.  The  Bible 
never  seemed  more  precious  to  me  than  then,  and 
never  before  did  I  so  understand  its  vahie.  It  also 
seemed  to  me  as  if  it  were  never  in  better  hands,  in 
many  ways,  than  when  borne  in  the  palms  of  those 
men  in  blue.  The  gun  and  the  Bible,  I  thought, 
were  fitting  companions  in  -this  case,  when  the  sol- 
diery sought  not  the  subjugation  of  a  foe,  but  the 
salvation  of  the  land  and  the  perpetuation  of  the 
republic.  If  such  a  soldier  had  not  a  right  to  that 
treasure,  and  if  for  the  soldier  its  lessons  were  not, 
then  had  I  misunderstood  its  import  and  overvalued 
its  merit.  The  American  soldier's  Bible,  I  felt 
then,  was  the  word  of  God.  Therein  has  he  jus- 
tification, and  therefrom  may  he  have  comfort. 

And  now  the  time  of  leave-taking  had  come.  A 
thousand  men  were  to  go  forth  from  the  camp  at 
home  to  the  field,  among  strangers.  I  was  espe- 
cially interested  in  this  departure.  Many  of  my 
comrades  were  in  the  ranks, — boys  a  little  my 
senior,  beside  whom  I  had  sat  in  day  and  Sunday 
school,  and  with  whom  I  had  shared  the  richer 
sports  of  my  youthful  days  I  was  to  bid  them 
good-bye,  and  stay  behind.  I  rejoiced  that  they 
were  going;  I  honored,  I  loved,  and  yet  I  en- 
vied them.  With  my  parents,  I  rode  to  Doyles- 
town ;    and  soon  the  long  train  was   drawn   up, 


MOBE   RECRUITS    FOR   THE   WAR.  87 

and  the  men,  with  mirth  and  glee  commingled 
with  tears  and  even  groans,  had  boarded  the 
cars  for  their  departure.  Sad  was  the  sight; 
and  it  grieved  me  much  that  hearts  should  ache 
and  tears  should  flow.  My  parents  w^ept  in  silence 
for  the  grief  of  others,  and  perhaps  in  thought  of 
coming  woe  for  themselves.  I  could  not  consent 
that  these  men  should  go  and  leave  me.  Mj 
lirst  determination  was  to  board  the  train  in 
the  moment  of  starting;  but  I  knew  that  if  I  did 
I  should  be  put  ofl:',  and  thus  disgraced.  But  when 
they  were  finally  gone,  when  no  longer  we  could 
hear  the  stifled  good-bye,  nor  see  in  the  distance 
the  waving  handkerchief,  then  my  heart  was  aflame 
with  anger.  I  was  even  boiling  with  rage ;  and 
this  madness  was  against  my  parents.  I  felt  that 
they  had  kept  me  back,  and  were  wholly  and  only 
responsible  for  my  disappointment.  In  this  act, 
how*  foolish  was  I  and  how  full  of  devotion  were 
they.  They  knew  wherein  was  my  peace,  and 
that  I  sought  as  a  child  the  path  of  woe  and  mis- 
ery. Had  I  been  honest,  I  would  have  confessed 
their  love  in  restraining  my  rashness.  I  would  not 
join  them  in  the  homeward  ride,  but  chose,  in  my 
vengeful  and  sullen  spirit,  to  walk  the  distance 
alone.  Arriving  late  at  home,  I  went  to  bed  in  a 
pout,  caring  not  to  extend  either  the  good-night 
kiss  or  word 


88  THE   LIGHT   OF   OTHER  DATS. 


CHAPTER  XYIII. 

SYMPATHY   AND    CARE   FOR   THE    SOLDIER. 

And  now  the  regiment  was  gone,  and  therewith, 
for  the  present,  almost  the  last  hope  of  my  heart. 
The  boarders,  too,  who  had  measurably  brought 
an  outside  world  into  our  home,  had  also  gone. 
Home  had  less  charms  than  ever,  and  the  world 
seemed  to  have  turned  its  back  forever  on  one  of 
its  humble  children.  I  imagined  I  had  no  friends, 
and  that  all  were  false  to  me.  But  cold  winter 
was  coming  on,  and  the  men  who  had  left  their 
homes  of  comfort  and  plenty  for  the  gloomy 
fields  of  southern  strife  began  to  be  in  want ;  and 
the  pleading  voice  for  aid  came  up  to  the  deserted 
homes  and  their  weeping,  wailing  inmates.  They 
missed  the  delicate  bounties  of  their  not-forgotten 
tables ;  and  their  feet  especially  were  suffering  from 
the  cold. 

Knitting  became  an  almost  universal  employ- 
ment ;  and  it  seemed  as  though  even  the  men  would 
again  learn  an  art  now  lost  to  them.  Knitting 
parties  were  the  order,  while  every  housewife  found 


SrMPATHY    FOR   THE   SOLDIER.  89 

time  to  fasHion  the  wool  of  the  sheep  into  stock- 
ings for  the  brave  bojs  in  blue.  Boxes  were  hasti- 
ly prepared  and  filled  with  supplies  for  the  men, 
wherein  many  were  remembered  much,  but  all 
were  remembered  some.  Even  the  stranger  was 
not  forgotten,  though  he  had  no  wife,  no  sister,  no 
mother  to  whom  to  address  his  appeal.  How  hap- 
py the  people  felt  in  the  act  of  ottering,  and  how 
consecrated  everything  sent  seemed  to  be.  l!Tever 
had  priest  more  etfectually  blessed  sacred  things 
than  did  our  women  at  home  bless  each  little  ar- 
ticle marked  and  named  for  the  absent  soldier. 
Such  wonderful  outgushings  of  sympathy,  and 
such  devout  and  tender  expressions  of  love, 
I  had  never  before  witnessed.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  all  love  now  was  for  the  absent  ones,  and  that 
to  be  loved  one  must  pass  on  to  the  perils  of  the 
front.  The  men  at  home  appeared  ashamed;  and 
while  the  women  wept  for  the  absent,  they  ap- 
peared manifestly  indifferent  toward  the  able- 
bodied  who  remained  at  home.  If  news  came 
that  one  was  sick  in  camp,  even  if  at  home  no  one 
regarded  him,  from  every  heart  came  expressions 
of  sympathy,  and  every  one  appeared  ready  to  be 
transformed  into  his  guardian  angel.  If  a  soldier 
died,  all  became  mourners,  and  the  world  seemed 
to  turn  out  for  the  burial  of  his  body,  if  it  could 
be    brought  home.     Never  were  saints   so  eulo* 


90  THE   LIGHT   OF   OTHER  DAYS. 

gized,  even  from  the  sacred  desk,  as  was  the  soldier 
who  happened  to  die  in  camp  or  on  the  field;  and 
one  was  almost  adjudged  a  criminal  who  dared  to 
say,  or  even  think,  that  the  soldier,  whatever  his 
character,  was  unsaved.  In  the  blue,  under  the 
banner,  appeared  to  guaranty  him  a  passport 
through  the  gates  of  life. 

This  devotion  only  served  to  increase  my  en- 
thusiastic admiration  for  the  soldier's  life,  and  to 
fix  my  purpose  to  enter  the  war  at  the  earliest  mo- 
ment. I  envied  the  soldiers  beyond  all  other  men, 
and  thought  them  the  happiest  of  mortals.  My 
father  now  began  to  admonish  me  against  further 
thought  of  the  service,  and  to  congratulate  me  that 
I  was  not  numbered  with  the  suftering  men.  But 
his  talk  made  no  impression  on  me.  I  felt  that 
there  was  a  glory  in  their  want  and  sufi^ering  that 
made  it  intensely  enjoyable  and  desirable;  and 
while  I  could  pity,  I  envied  them  none  the  less. 
To  congratulate  myself  was  but  to  call  up  the  spirit 
of  a  coward  in  my  heart,  and  to  willingl}^  resign 
the  very  glory  for  which  I  thirsted.  My  mother 
expressed  much  happiness  over  my  home  presence, 
and  blessed  God  with  her  daily  life  that  her  dear 
boy  was  not  on  the  tented  field.  Her  happiness 
from  this  source  was  but  the  fire  for  further  anger 
with  me.  It  was  joy,  as  I  thought,  at  my  expense, 
and   delight   at  my  disappointment.     How   hard 


SYMPATHY  FOR   THE   SOLDIER.  91 

"was  my  judgment,  I  had  occasion  at  no  distant  day 
to  fully  understand.  I  recalled,  with  bitter  weep- 
ing, my  own  hardness  of  heart,  but  not,  however, 
until  the  shadow  had  quite  gone  over  the  broken 
heart  of  my  mother. 


92  THE   LIGHT   OF   OTHER  DAYS. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

A    SOLDIER   AT    LAST. 

For  cue  more  winter  I  was  in  school;  and  oh, 
that  I  could  have  known  and  realized  that  it  was 
my  last !  Could  I  have  been  told  as  much  I  would 
have  rejoiced  with  wildest  joy.  N'o  prophecy  would 
have  pleased  me  better.  School  was  but  a  prison 
for  me,  and  its  walls  but  those  of  a  dungeon.  I 
believe  I  would  have  exchanged  them  even  for 
those  of  cold  and  dismal  Libby,  or  the  death- 
dealing  field  of  Andersonville.  In  them  I  saw 
glory,  and  that  upon  them  the  eyes  of  a  nation 
rested  in  sympathy.  How  weak  the  judgment 
and  how  foolish  the  ambition  that  begrudged  the 
dying,  starving  soldier-prisoner  hisglorj-;  taat  for 
it  would  exchange  the  love  of  liome,  the  attention 
of  friends,  and  the  advantages  of  school!  Im- 
prove I  would  not,  and  advance  I  did  not.  To 
learn  my  lessons  and  improve  my  mind  was  too 
much  like  condescension  to  my  teachers,  and  grat- 
ification for  my  parents.  I  only  longed  for  the 
close  of  the  day  and  for  the  end  of  the  term.     I 


A   SOLDIER   AT   LAST  93 

was  angry  at  every  one,  and  was  even  mad  at  my 
self  for  betraying  a  weakness  that  admitted  of  de- 
feat. If  I  could  not  battle  on  the  field,  I  would 
light  at  home;  if  I  could  not  face  the  rehel^l  would 
face,  in  foolish  fury,  my  mates.  I  actually  took  com- 
fort in  wicked  brawls  and  daily  tights.  To  whip 
or  be  whipped  was  all  the  same,  and  seemed  to  sat- 
ify  for  the  moment  my  foolish  ambition  for  glory. 
If  friends  would  not  release  me  because  of  their 
love,  I  would  even  loosen  those  love-bands,  and 
change  the  spirit  that  inspired  them  into  one  of 
indifference  and  hate.  It  was  love,  I  knew,  that 
held  me,  and  because  of  this  I  even  hated  to  be 
loved. 

Captain  Harvey,  in  the  midwinter,  opened  a 
recruiting  office  at  Doylestown,  and  frequently  the 
sound  of  drum  and  fife  was  heard  in  my  home.  I 
was  charmed  with  the  music  and  re-inspired  with 
its  strains.  I  learned  tliat  a  mate  of  mine,  a  drum- 
mer-boy, was  to  be  sent  home,  and  the  thought 
occurred  to  me  that  possibly  I  might  be  accepted 
in  his  place.  I  would  go  to  Doylestown  and  ofter 
myself  at  least.  If  rejected,  I  would  feel  a  satis- 
faction in  the  fact  and  thought  of  the  ofl'er  and  the 
eftbrt.  From  school  I  went  over  to  Doylestown, 
arriving  about  dark,  tired  and  hungry.  Entering 
the  office,  there  stood  the  captain,  a  tall,  gray- 
haired,  soldierly-looking  man,  writing  at  his  desk, 


^4  THE   LIGHT    OF    OTHER  DAYS. 

and  alone.  Mj  heart  was  in  my  throat  at  sight  of 
Mm,  for  it  seemed  to  me  that  in  him  centered  all 
the  happiness  for  which  I  hoped.  I  mustered 
courage,  however,  at  once,  and  said,  "  Captain,  do 
you  want  a  drummer-boy,  in  place  of  Bobby 
Bryon?  Scanning  me  from  head  to  foot,  and 
-almost  piercing  me  with  his  eyes,  he  said,  "  What, 
sir,  can  you  do  ? "  Hanging  my  head  and  scraping 
my  feet,  I  answered,  "I  think  I  could  learn  to 
drum,  sir."  "Did  you  ever  drum  any?"  he  asked 
again.  I  bethought  myself  of  a  toy-drum  that  I 
had  had  a  few  years  before,  and  I  instantly  an- 
swered, "  I  have  drummed  a  little,  sir."  "  But  you 
are  too  small,  my  boy."  "I  think  that  I  can  stand 
it  if  I  am,  if  the  rest  can."  "WaH^  i  ^^m  gee." 
And  he  began  writing  again.  I  began  to  hope 
somewhat;  but  withal,  I  was  tormented  with 
doubts  as  yet  unsettled.  That  he  would  take  me 
I  did  not  know.  Respectfully  I  sat  in  silence,  not 
wishing  by  any  impertinence  to  diminish  my 
chances  for  acceptance.  Men  began  to  enter  the 
office  and  address  different  inquiries  to  the  captain 
rearardinff  the  service,  and  some  enrolled  their 
names  for  soldiers.  But  the  evening  was  pass- 
ing; and  I  was  hungry,  and  a  long  distance  from 
home.  I  feared  the  captain  had  entirely  forgotten 
me,  and  so  at  last,  half  despairing,  I  summoned 
courage  to  address  him  again.     "  Captain."  said  I, 


A   SOLDIER   AT    LAST.  95 

"  Can  you  tell  me  now  if  I  will  answer  for  a  drum- 
mer-boy?" His  answer  chilled  my  heart.  "lean 
not  think  of  taking  you  without  the  written  con- 
sent of  both  your  parents.  However,  consult 
them,  and  see  me  again  in  a  day  or  two."  With- 
out any  reason,  I  dared  hope  they  would  consent, 
and  I  said,  "If  they  are  willing,  can  I  go?"  He 
would  only  answer,  "  I  will  see."  1  entered  upon 
my  return  walk  with  a  heavy  heart  somewhat 
lightened,  yet  fearful  of  disappointment  at  last. 
My  folks  were  in  bed,  for  the  hour  of  midnight 
was  near.  I  passed  a  restless  night,  and  slept  only 
to  dream  of  army  life  and  myself  as  a  soldier  there- 
in. I  arose  with  the  early  dawn,  determining  to" 
make  the  best  use  of  the  day.  I  petitioned  my 
father,  and  begged  him  for  his  consent,  but  with 
no  shadow  of  success.  I  spent  many  hours  in 
drumming,  with  hands  and  sticks,  on  everthing. 

A  few  days  had  elapsed,  and  no  concession  had 
been  made  by  my  parents.  I  thought  to  write  a 
permit  and  sign  it  myself,  but  could  not  get  the 
courage  happily  to  do  this. 

One  evening,  at  the  end  of  a  week,  I  came  home 
and  found  father  reading,  but  not  in  a  specially 
liappy  mood.  I  pleaded  with  him  again,  until  at 
last  his  patience  seemed  exhausted,  and  to  my  joy- 
ful surprise  he  took  up  a  piece  of  note-paper  and 
hastDy  wrote  a  permit  and  signed  it.    He  handed 


96  THE   LIGHT   OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

it  to  me  and  said,  "Now,  get  your  mother  to  sign  it 
if  you.  can."  He  felt  that  now  he  had  rid  himself i 
of  further  trouble,  and  had  transferred  me  to 
another  court,  whereat  I  could  gain  no  point  or 
have  any  hope.  He  had  j  udged  well  of  my  mother. 
He  knew  she  would  not  let  me  go.-  I  felt  that  I 
was  hopelessly  approaching  the  new  tribunal,  and 
yet  I  was  rejoiced  that  I  had  the  consent  of  one. 
I  would  make  the  best  use  of  this.  I  pleaded  with 
my  mother,  cried,  and  linally  threatened  to  run. 
away  from  home.  She  looked  at  me  in  silence 
through  her  scalding  tears  and  answered,  unmis- 
takably and  emphatically, "  no  !  "  I  could  not  long 
face  her  tears,  and  was  glad  to  go  out  from  her 
presence,  even  without  her  consent. 

My  mother's  refusal  gratified  my  father,  and  he 
appeared  to  feel  that  now  the  trouble  was  at  an 
end.  I  was  rebuked,  but  did  not  feel  myself  de- 
feated. I  thought,  planned,  and  plotted  cautious- 
ly. I  knew  there  was  no  further  use  in  pleading 
with  my  mother,  and  that  I  could  never  obtain 
her  consent.  I  would  see  how  far  my  father's  sin- 
gle permission  would  carry  me.  A  week  passed, 
and  one  evening  I  went  to  the  station;  and  being 
without  money  I  took  my  seat,  as  the  cars  were 
starting,  on  the  rear  platform  of  the  last  car,  and 
paosed  on  to  Doylestown  unobserved. 

The  captain  and  a  drummer-boy  named  Kel- 


A   SOLDIER  AT   LAST.  97 

ley  were  at  the  depot,  and  I  walkea  with  them 
to  the  office.  Eutering,  I  at  once  pulled  out  my 
father's  permit  and  said,  "Here,  captain,  I  have 
it."  He  read  it  and  said  to  my  relief,  "  That  will 
do,  sir;  I  will  swear  you  in  after  supper."  After 
his  return,  Kelley  and  I  were  sworn  in  and  sent  to 
the  hotel  to  remain  until  we  could  be  prepared 
and  sent  on  to  the  front.  My  heart  was  filled  with 
remorse,  commingled  with  a  joyful  satisfaction.  I 
was  a  soldier  now,  and  belonged  to  the  service  of 
my  country.  But  I  knew  too  well  that  I  had 
acted  dishonorably,  and  that  the  captain's  course 
was  without  proper  warrant,  and  even  beyond  his 
own  promise.  Before  retiring  I  had  the  captain's 
permission  to  go  home  in  the  morning  and  spend 
the  Sabbath  with  my  folks.  I  slept  but  little,  and 
before  the  light  was  at  the  train  for  my  home.  I 
arrived  home  before  my  mother  was  up,  but  father 
was  building  the  fire.  I  touched  his  shoulder  and 
said,  in  almost  a  whisper,  "  I  have  enlisted."  "  Oh, 
wicked  boy,"  said  he,  "you  will  break  your 
father's  heart."  There  was  anguish  in  his  look, 
and  a  burning  reproof,  like  fire,  on  his  words,  for 
me.  When  my  mother  came  down,  she  was  al- 
most crushed  with  the  news,  and  shed  bitterest 
tears,  in  which  I  could  not  but  join  with  her.  I 
feared  they  would  protest,  and  at  once  take  steps 
to  undo  what  I  had  done;  but  of  this  they  said 
nothing. 


98  THE    LIGHT   OF   OTHER  DAYS. 

The  Sabbath-day  was  devoted  to  a  visit  to  my 
mother's  father.  I  can  not  say  that  I  enjoyed  the 
stay,  as  so  much  of  the  time  was  given  to  the  thought 
of  my  action  and  tinal  leaving  home.  My  mother 
was  so  full  of  sorrow  that  I  could  not  be  happy. 
Still,  for  her  sake,  I  could  not  have  retraced  my 
steps  or  recalled  my  oath  to  the  government. 
The  morning  came  at  last,  and  I  bid  the  loved 
ones,  now  doubly  loved,  what  proved  to  be  a  final 
good-bye.  All  malice  now  had  departed  from  my 
heart.  I  was  loving  the  home  circle  with  the  ten- 
der love  I  had  formerly  indulged  for  them.  I  was 
not  sorry  when  the  hour  of  departure  had  come, 
as  the  sorrow  of  the  visit  was  unmanning  me,  and 
I  felt  that  I  could  restrain  my  feelings  but  little 
longer. 

I  returned  to  the  hotel  at  Doylestown,  where 
bar-room  talk  somewhat  mitigated  my  grief.  A 
few  days  after  my  return,  as  I  went  into  the  din- 
ing hall,  there  sat  my  mother  in  the  corner  of  the 
room,  silently  weeping.  She  looked  care-worn, 
and  yet  in  her  sadness  doubly  beautiful  and  lovely. 
My  heart  was  sick  at  her  sight,  and  I  was  almost 
glad  to  hear  her  say  that  she  could  stay  but  a  mo- 
ment. I  was,  she  said,  to  return  home  on  the 
morrow,  and  she  must  hurry  back,  that  she  might 
have  my  things  in  readiness.  In  her  love  she  had 
prepared  many  little  things  for  me  to  take,  and  all 


A   SOLDIER  AT  LAST.  99 

would  be  ready  at  my  coming.  Since  protesting 
had  not  been  effectual,  affection  had  been  busy  in 
preparing  for  my  comfort.  Little  I  knew  the 
fervency  of  that  mother's  love,  the  depth  of  her 
pure  affection.  Her's  was  a  mother's  love,  and 
this  explained  it  all. 

Soon  after  she  left  us  marching  orders  came, 
and  instead  of  going  home  for  a  day  I  could  sim- 
ply pass  by  my  father's  home  on  my  way  to  the 
front.  At  iirst  I  was  pained  by  juy  disappoint- 
ment, and  then  this  feeling  gave  way  to  relief.  I 
dreaded  the  thought  of  returning  home  for  the 
final  good-bye.  I  did  not  longer  feel  guilty,  but  I 
felt  that  I  could  stand  no  more  tears,  and  that  in 
the  final  farewell  my  mothers  heart  would  break. 
I  did  not  have  opportunity  to  even  get  word  to 
my  parents,  that  they  might  meet  me  on  the  pass- 
ing train  at  the  station. 


100  THE   LIGHT   OF   OTHER   DAYS. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

OFF  TO   THE   FRONT. 

The  day  of  departure  had  come.  Some  thirty 
of  us  were  to  go  forward  to  the  104th  regiment  as 
recruits.  Among  these  was  a  soldier  who  deeply 
regretted  having  enlisted.  To  drown  his  grief  he 
used  the  cup.  He  tried  to  get  away,  and  begged 
to  be  released.  This,  however,  could  not  be ;  and 
that  he  might  be  safe  when  the  train  arrived  he 
was  firmly  tied.  In  this  condition  he  was  taken 
aboard  the  cars.  When  passing  the  old  home  I 
hoped  I  should  see  all  the  loved  ones.  I  was  al- 
most dying  for  one  look  more  at  mother,  father, 
sisters,  and  brother.  But  as  the  train  dashed  by  I 
saw  only  a  sister,  to  whom  I  threw  my  bundle  of 
old  clothes  and  a  kiss  of  affection  for  her  and  all. 
And  now,  on  the  swift  wings  of  steam  I  was  leav- 
ing home,  and  perhaps  forever.  My  father's  words 
rung  in  my  ears,— perhaps  I  would  be  crippled, 
lose  my  sight,  or  possibly  my  life,  and  therewith 
my  soul.     My  mother's  sad  look  haunted  me,  and 


OFF   TO    THE   FRONT.  101 

the  vision,  with  all  my  love  for  her,  made  me  sick 
at  heart.  But  my  wish  was  answered ;  I  was  ac- 
cepted as  a  soldier  in  the  service  of  my  country. 
I  would  know  now  what  the  world  was,  and 
whether  the  dreams  of  fancy,  as  inspired  by  the 
pages  of  the  poisonous  New  York  Ledger^  were 
indeed  real.  Home,  in  these  moments,  began  to 
appear  the  sacred  place  that  it  really  was ;  and  while 
I  then  wished  no  return  to  it,  yet  I  deeply  mourn- 
ed that  I  had  not  loved  and  appreciated  it  better; 
that  in  striving  to  get  from  home  I  had  really 
sought  to  poison  the  atmosphere  of  home. 

In  the  midst  of  these  reveries,  Philadelphia  was 
reached,  where  we  had  a  stay  of  a  few  hours  only. 
Little  thought  I  then  what  experiences  I  was  to 
have  within  its  borders.  The  future  was  gracious- 
ly shadowed  by  a  merciful  Providence.  While  I 
was  content  with  my  lot,  and  longed  to  be  again 
on  the  wing,  my  drummer-mate,  Kelley,  was  not 
so  happy.  He  had  begun  to  regret  the  practical 
expression  of  his  patriotism  by  enlistment.  He 
longed  to  be  free  again.  Already  he  had  seen 
enough  of  soldier  life.  But  we  were  all  closely 
guarded  in  our  waiting-room,  and  escape  was  dif- 
ficult. In  the  winking  of  an  eye,  however,  Kelley 
was  through  the  window  and  on  the  run,  a  free 
young  man,  as  he  supposed.  But  he  had  little 
chance  to  answer  his  wish.    His  speed  and  ap- 


102  THE   LIGHT   OF   OTHER   DAYS. 

pearance  both  aroused  suspicion,  and  he  was  soon 
caught  and  returned  by  an  officer.  He  was  weep- 
ing bitterly  when  brought  in,  and  as  a  punishment 
was  locked  up  and  closely  guarded. 

Soon  onward  again  we  sped,  and  in  good  time 
reached  Baltimore  City.  At  last  I  felt  that  I  was 
indeed  on  bloody  ground.  I  remembered  vividly 
the  account  of  the  Baltimore  riot  of  the  previous 
19th  of  April;  and  I  instinctively  felt  that  I  could 
see  traces  of  blood  for  the  looking.  There  was  lit- 
tle time  for  observation,  however,  or  for  specula- 
tion, the  only  thing  of  real  interest  occurring  to  us 
in  the  city  being  the  second  attempted  escape  of 
my  comrade,  Kelley.  This  time  he  attempted  to 
jump  from  the  train  as  it  was  moving  out,  but  was 
caught  in  the  act  by  one  of  our  soldiers  and  re- 
turned again  to  our  car.  From  this  time  he  was 
allowed  little  liberty,  being  closely  watched  until 
our  arrival  in  camp.  I  pitied  him  from  my  heart, 
and  half  wished  he  might  succeed  in  his  endeavor. 
I  felt  that  one  should  be  free  in  this  matter  of 
military  service;  and  he  being  young,  I  felt  anger- 
ed almost  that  he  should  be  pursued. 

A  brief  ride,  and  we  were  in  Washington,  a  city 
that  seemed  sacred  to  me  from  its  name  and  its  re- 
lation to  the  nation.  It  appeared  to  me  now  that  I 
was  resting  against  the  throbbing  heart  of  my  coun- 
try.    The  sight  of  the  grand  old  capitol  of  the  na- 


OFF  TO  THE  FRONT.  108 

tion,  under  whose  dome  the  politically  great  of  the 
country  and  the  world  had  so  often  gathered, 
thrilled  me  with  a  new  interest.  Could  American 
citizens,  I  could  reason,  but  stand  to-day  under  the 
shadow  of  their  nation's  capitol,  how  the  fires  of 
patriotism  would  burn  within  them,  and  how  quick- 
ly would  the  thousands  needed  for  the  crushing  ot 
the  rebellion  come  to  the  front  for  the  solemn  af- 
ft-ay.  I  felt  that  it  was  well  to  march  our  men  to 
the  field  by  the  grand  and  beautiful  structure,  if 
not  through  its  majestic  portals.  But  we  could 
take  no  time  for  observation,  except  such  as  we 
could  glean  on  the  wing.  "We  were  pushed  on  to 
Kaloroma  Heights,  a  few  miles  from  Georgetown, 
where  we  found  our  regiment. 


104  THE   LIGHT   OF   OTHER  DAYS. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

CAMP-LIFE. 

I  was  now  in  camp,  and  began  to  realize  the  sol- 
emn truth  that  I  was  a  soldier  at  last.  As  in  my 
weariness  I  lay  down  in  my  tent  that  night,  I  had 
strange  feelings  indeed.  I  thought  of  home  now 
as  the  sweetest,  dearest,  and  most  sacred  spot  of 
earth ;  but  perhaps  I  had  forever  passed  its  thresh- 
old. Mother,  father,  sisters,  and  brother  passed  in 
rapid  and  constantly-recurring  vision ;  and  I  saw 
plainly  how  in  ten  thousand  ways  they  had  shown 
their  love  for  me.  But  oh,  how  ill  had  I  requit- 
ed them.  These  thoughts  I  was  glad  to  banish  at 
last  through  the  help  of  sleep — "tired  nature's 
sweet  restorer."  With  the  first  light  of  the  morn 
"I  began  to  make  a  closer  inspection  of  my  sur- 
roundings. The  outward  appearance  of  the  men 
greatly  disappointed  me.  I  had  seen  them  only 
in  the  camp  of  instruction,  and  when  clothing  and 
accouterments  were  all  new.  But  the  dust  and 
dirt  of  camp,  together  with  the  careless  indiffer- 
ence of  the  men  since  beyond  the  watchful  eyes  of 


CAMP-LIFE.  105 

home  friends,  had  greatly  chauged  the  appearance 
of  all.  The  camp  was  pleasant,  and  the  surround- 
ing country  delightful.  With  all  this,  however, 
I  was  soon  full  of  fear  and  homesickness.  There 
was  much  sickness,  including  small-pox,  in  the 
camp.  I  had  of  this  greatly  more  fear  than  I  had 
of  the  rebels,  and  I  felt  equally  sure  that  I  should 
fare  no  better  at  its  hands  should  I  be  taken  down. 
I  found,  too,  that  I  had  undertaken  more  than  I 
thought — to  learn  the  art  of  drumming  in  the  sol- 
dier's camp  and  for  the  service  of  the  field.  For 
the  first  month  I  made  but  poor  proficiency,  and 
felt  very  mucli  discouraged  over  my  slow  prc)gress. 
Still,  I  was  ambitious,  and  reasonably  persevering, 
and  was  sure  that  in  time  I  would  master  my  art. 

Soon  aftei-  ISTew-Years  we  removed  our  regi- 
ment to  the  barracks  in  Camp  Carver,  about  three 
miles  from  Washington,  and  a  like  distance  from 
the  Soldiers'  Home.  Our  camp  accommodated 
four  regiments  and  a  company  of  artillery.  The 
barracks,  consisting  of  some  twelve  houses  to  a 
regiment,  formed  the  outer  lines  of  a  square,  in-' 
closing  perhaps  ten  acres  of  level  ground,  with  the 
old  flag  waving  from  a  central  staff.  On  the  east 
side  of  this  square  was  the  104th  Pennsylvania,  on 
the  south  the  52d  Pennsylvania,  on  the  west  the 
56th  New  York,  and  on  the  north  the  11th  Maine. 

The  Columbia  Hospital  was  situated  near  our 


105    .  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER    DAYS. 

camp,  and  from  it  to  the  cemetery  the  road  passed 
directly  in  front  of  our  regiment.  Daily  funerals, 
accompanied  by  the  solemn,  muffled  drum,  and 
the  sad  ringing  of  the  hospital  bell,  attracted  for  a 
time  my  most  serious  and  painful  attention.  With 
these  solemn  processions  sometimes  five  or  six 
bodies  were  carried  to  burial  at  one  time,  and  not 
unfrequently  several  processions  passed  us  in  a 
single  day.  Letters  from  home  came  often,  and 
breathed  for  me  the  tenderest  possible  spirit.  At 
first  their  arrival  awakened  unhappy  emotions, 
and  sometimes  I  wished  myself  at  home  again. 
But  I  was  being  fast  weaned  from  home,  and 
even  from  the  thoughts  and  habits  of  a  goodly 
life.  There  were  a  few  faithful  ones  in  camp,  and 
they,  with  the  chaplain,  kept  up  the  weekly  serv- 
ice and  prayer-meeting,  but  I  rarely  attended 
them.  If  duty  called  me  toward  the  chaplain's 
tent  or  the  place  of  prayer,  I  hurriedly  passed 
them  by. 

With  my  separation  from  home  friends,  and  the 
sad  scenes  of  death  and  burial  all  around  me,  with 
the  early  prospect  of  perhaps  fatal  conflict  with 
the  enemy,  all  of  these  considerations  should  cer- 
tainly have  awakened  and  continued  serious  emo- 
tions. Very  soon,  however,  I  could  say,  "None 
of  these  things  move  me."  I  was  fast  becoming 
an  unprincipled  and  hardened  boy.     I  was  in  that 


CAMP-LIFE.  107 

school  least  of  all  suited  to  myself,  and  where 
thousands,  for  time  and  eternity,  were  hopelessly 
ruined.  Card-playing,  the  soldier's  curse,  as  well 
as  the  fatal  curse  of  society  at  home,  and  penny- 
poker,  became  my  daily  amusement.  At  lirst 
there  were  scruples  of  conscience,  remembering 
the  aversion  of  my  parents  to  this  habit,  and  the 
convictions  of  my  own  heart.  Soon,  however, 
these  were  stifled,  and  I  felt  little  trouble  in  doing 
as  others  did.  A  few  faithful  men  admonished 
me,  and  for  a  day  or  two  I  would  regard  their 
counsels  and  heed  their  warnings,  but  soon  the 
jeerings  of  comrades  would  rally  me  again  to  their 
sports.  At  the  card-table  I  soon  learned  its  usual 
language,  and  became  at  last  a  profane  swearer. 
This  was  wholly  against  my  purpose,  but  when 
once  angry  I  found  that  I  could  go  any  distance. 
My  drummer-mate,  Cochran,  was  a  Catholic 
boy,  raised  in  New  York.  I  did  not  like  him  any 
too  well ;  but  our  service  threw  us  together,  and 
as  mates  we  would  often  share  the  social  game  of 
cards,  even  to  the  extent  of  gambling.  One  day 
we  became  enraged,  and  a  fight  was  the  conclud- 
ing episode  of  the  game.  We  were  arrested  and 
taken  to  the  captain's  head-quarters  for  punish- 
ment. We  were  handcuffed  hand  to  hand  and 
face  to  face.  This  was  too  much  for  foes,  and  a 
nearness  of  communion  that  neither  of  us  admired... 


108  THE   LIGHT   OF   OTHER  DATS. 

For  an  hour  or  so  we  kicked  at  and  spit  upon  each 
other,  until  at  last  we  were  both  exhausted  and 
ashamed.  Auger  ceased,  and  friendship  became 
cordial  and  permanent  from  that  hour.  Toward 
night,  after  being  thus  handcufted  for  nearly  an  en- 
tire day,  we  were  released  on  the  promise  that  we 
would  play  penny-poker  no  more.  The  promise, 
though  made  in  good  faith,  was  soon  broken,  and 
the  exciting  game  renewed  with  new  interest  and 
enthusiasm  for  a  time.  Meantime  letters  were  ar- 
riving every  week  from  home:  and  though  I  ever 
rejoiced  in  their  coming,  yet  it  seemed  as  though 
they  had  eyes  to  see  and  lips  to  declare  my  con- 
duct to  mourning  loved  ones  at  home.  Hardened, 
as  I  had  already  become,  I  was  far  from  willing 
that  my  folks  should  know  the  condition  of  my 
heart  and  recklessness  of  my  conduct. 

Several  times  while  in  this  camp  boxes  from  the 
loved  ones  at  home  arrived,  laden  with  rich  and  en- 
joyable tokens  of  comfort.  Once  I  was  deeply  affect- 
ed in  being  thus  remembered  by  my  Sabbath-school 
mates.  While  these  delicacies  comforted,  they  al- 
so condemned  me,  as  I  felt  myself  wholly  unwor- 
thy of  tlie  bestowments.  I  had  come  to  enjoy 
camp-life.  My  improvement  on  the  drum  had 
made  of  that  labor  a  pleasure,  while  boxing,  card- 
playing,  pitching  pennies,  smoking,  etc.,  had  be- 
come fixed  and  foolish  habits  with  me.     I  ever 


CAMP-LIFE.  109 

thouglit  that  I  would  leave  them  all  in  the  camp, 
and  that  I  should  never  wish  to  indulge  them  when 
again  at  home.  But  habits  once  formed,  I  was  to 
learn,  were  not  so  easily  broken,  and  though  adopt- 
ed for  a  day,  might  continue  even  for  a  life-time. 
The  measles  during  the  spring  were  very  common 
and  fatal  in  our  camp.  The  Maine  regiment  lost 
nearly  if  not  quite  one  half  of  their  men.  In 
our  regiment  they  also  prevailed  widely  and  fatal- 
ly. Our  two  marker-boys  were  down  with  them, 
and  were  taken  to  the  hospital.  They  seemed  to 
do  well,  and  soon  were  both  out  again  and  in  camp. 
They  came  to  camp  together;  and  both  of  them,  the 
first  night,  took  cold  and  the  following  day  relapsed 
and  died.  This  was  a  shocking  and  chilling  spec- 
tacle. It  reminded  me  of  my  recklessness  and 
my  complete  lack  of  preparation.  I  was  the  more 
uneasy  as  I  had  not  had  the  measles  myself.  Soon 
I,  too,  was  down,  and  at  once  too  sick  to  be  re- 
moved to  the  hospital.  I  began  to  think  that  per- 
haps my  time  had  come,  and  that  possibly  I  had 
seen  home  and  family  friends  for  the  last  time. 
Bitter  remorse  took  hold  upon  me,  and  I  vowed  a 
better  life  for  the  future  should  I  recover.  And 
God  in  good  time  raised  me  up  again. 


110  THE    LIGHT   OF   OTHER  DATS. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

MARCHING  TO    THE    BATTLE-FIELD. 

I  was  no  sooner  about  the  camp  than  marching 
orders  were  received.  We  crossed  Long  Bridge 
about  dusk,  and  continued  our  march  most  of  the 
night.  Much  of  the  way  I  had  to  be  led,  from 
weakness  and  partial  loss  of  sight.  We  went  into 
camp  toward  morning,  near  Alexandria,  Virginia, 
and  remained  two  days  and  nights  without  oar 
tents,  exposed  to  rain  and  snow.  Our  condition 
was  fearfully  bad,  and  the  heartiest  suffered  much 
from  the  exposure.  From  my  condition  it  was  ex- 
ceedingly hard  on  me,  and  led,  doubtless,  to  conse- 
quences which  were  fully  ripened  only  in  my  ulti- 
mate blindness. 

We  were  now  ordered  into  Alexandria,  the  scene 
of  the  recent  death  of  the  lamented  young  Ells- 
worth. This  young  man,  at  the  time  of  his  death, 
was  engaged  to  be  married  to  Miss  Spaiibrd,  of 
Rockford,  Illinois,  a  decendent  of  General  War- 
ren, who  was  killed  at  Bunker  Hill.     Had  this 


THE   MARCH   TO   BATTLE.  Ill 

marriage  transpired  before  he  entered  the  service, 
as  was  intended,  then  the  first  officer  that  fell  in 
the  Revolution  and  the  first  that  fell  in  the  Rebell- 
ion would  have  had  relationship  through  marriage. 
The  old  stairway  whereon  Ellsworth  was  killed, 
and  which  was  stained  with  his  precious  blood,  had 
been  literally  chipped  to  pieces  and  carried  away 
as  bits  of  sacred  relics.  New  stairs  now  replaced 
the  old.  We  were  directed  to  board  the  Constitu- 
tion, a  Pacific  mail-steamer,  where  four  regiments 
lay  for  the  night.  The  river  was  rough,  the  wind 
was  wild,  and  the  storm  poured  with  unceasing 
fury.  Our  regiment  was  above,  on  the  hurricane 
deck,  and  we  were  protected  for  a  time  by  an 
awning;  but  before  morning  this  yielded  under 
its  vast  weight  of  water,  and  as  a  result  we  were 
completely  drenched.  Several  times,  too,  the  ves- 
sel nearly  capsized  from  the  weight  of  the  men ; 
and  withal  the  night  was  a  fearful  lapse  of  time. 
It  was  evident  that  the  vessel  was  too  heavily  load- 
ed, and  with  the  dawn  two  of  our  regiments  were 
marched  ashore.  After  a  few  hours  we  boarded 
another  steamer,  the  State  of  Maine,  for  Fortress 
Monroe.  There  was  little  of  interest  in  the  down- 
ward passage,  except  that  it  gave  me  my  first  ex- 
perience at  sea-going  and  steamer-sailing.  The 
scenery  was  grand,  and  had  I  felt  well  I  could  have 
enjoyed  it  much.    Our  passage  near  to  the  resting- 


112  THE   LIGHT   OF   OTHER  DAYS. 

place  of  Washington,  at  Mt.  Vernon,  awakened 
sacred  memories,  and  stirred  within  us  the  patriotic 
fires.  The  thought  that  his  grave  was  in  dust 
claimed  by  the  so-called  Confederacy  was  calculat- 
ed to  inspire  a  sentiment  of  devotion  to  the  old 
flag  under  which  and  for  which  he  fought,  and  to 
awaken  within  all  new  ardor  in  our  cause.  Many 
a  soldier  has  written  on  his  heart  fresh  vows,  and 
consecrated  himself  anew  on  his  country's  altar,  as 
he  has  passed  near  the  shadows  of  Mt.  Vernon. 

I  was  much  exhausted  on  my  arrival  at  the  for- 
tress, as  was  my  drummer-mate.  We  were  both 
urged  to  go  to  the  hospital ;  but  he  had  to  go  alone, 
I  refusing  to  go.  We  went  into  camp  at  Newport 
News,  where  we  arrived  about  sundown.  I  was 
too  weak  to  carry  my  knapsack,  which  one  of  the 
captains  kindly  volunteered  to  carry  for  me.  The 
regiment  almost  immediately  moved  toward  York- 
town  ;  but  for  nearly  a  week  I  remained  at  the 
News,  unfit  for  duty,  and  too  weak  to  go  forward. 
After  entering  camp  near  Yorktown  I  sufi'ered  ex- 
tremely from  my  eyes,  and  was,  of  course,  of  little 
or  no  account  to  the  regiment.  It  began  to  be 
painfully  evident  to  me  that  as  a  soldier  I  could 
render  but  little  serviee  and  be  of  little  value. 
This  I  deeply  regretted,  as  the  flame  of  patriotism 
was  all  aglow  within  me.  Our  regiment  was  en- 
gaged in  daily  reconnoitering  expeditions,  and  suf- 


THE   MARCH   TO   BATTLE.  113 

fered  from  an  occasional  casualty.  Occasionally 
shells  from  the  enemies'  guns  would  pass  over  and 
near  our  camp.  This  awakened  a  sentiment  of 
fear  within  me  for  about  the  first  time.  While 
lying  here  letters  from  home  conveyed  tlie  sad 
news  of  my  father's  sickness.  He  had  broken  an 
arm.  I  began  to  suffer  from  remorse.  If  I  had 
stayed  at  home  I  could  give  both  help  and  comfort 
now;  but  as  I  was  I  could  be  of  benefit  to  no  one, 
and  knew  full  well  that  I  occasioned  much  sorrow 
and  anxiety  to  the  loved  ones  at  home. 

Yorktown  was  finally  evacuated  by  the  rebels, 
and  our  forces  advanced  in  pursuit.  I  was  left  be- 
hind with  the  baggage  guard.  After  the  severely- 
earned  victory  of  Williamsburg  our  regiment  went 
into  camp  at  White  House,  on  the  Pamunky. 
There  we  went  by  steamer  to  join  them ;  but  on  our 
arrival  we  found  they  had  left  in  pursuit  of  the  ene- 
my. After  a  wearying  search  of  two  days  we  finally 
found  them  near  Savage  Station,  across  the  Chick- 
ahominy.  Being  now  somewhat  recovered,  I  re- 
l^orted  for  duty.  We  were  constantly  engaged  in 
reconnoitering,  and  were  in  daily  expectation  of  ■ 
engaging  the  enemy.  Our  regiment  met  the  ene- 
my from  this  point  in  a  slight  skirmish,  which 
proved  their  first  experience  under  fire.  Several 
were  wounded,  and  one  man  was  killed.  The  ac- 
count was  exceedingly  exciting  to  me,  and  I  felt 

8 


114  THE   LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS, 

vengeful  blood  coursing  througli  my  veins.  The 
enemy  was  reported  near,  and  anxious  for  battle 
on  their  chosen  ground.  We  now  removed  to  Fair 
Oaks,  where  we  were  in  hourly  expectation  of  a 
battle.  A  rebel  sharp-shooter  was  here  brought  into  . 
camp  severely  wounded.  His  presence  excited . 
savage  indignation  among  the  men.  Preparations 
were  now  being  hurriedly  made  for  a  linal  engage- 
ment. Baggage  was  sent  to  the  rear,  across  the 
Chickahominy.  The  engagement  was  begun  by 
the  enemy,  and  our  regiment,  from  tlie  iirst,  was 
in  the  thickest  of  the  fight.  The  shells  came  fear- 
fully close  to  us,  and  I  was  in  momentary  expec- 
tation of  being  killed.  The  noise  of  the  artillery 
and  musketry  was  absolutely  deafening,  while  our 
forces  for  a  time  were  driven  back  and  through 
our  camp,  which  was  occupied  by  the  enemy.  All 
was  confusion,  as  may  well  be  imagined;  and  I  be- 
gan to  desire  some  place  of  safety.  My  work  v,'as 
not  exciting  enough  to  inspire  courage.  "Wounded 
men  were  being  carried  hurriedly  to  the  rear, 
mangled,  groaning,  and  dying.  The  spectacle  was 
horrifying.  I  did  not  join  our  regiment  again  un- 
til sundown.  Great  as  was  their  danger,  I  felt 
somewhat  secure  in  their  company.  But  liow 
changed  their  appearance!  From  six  hundred 
strong  in  the  morning,  now  only  about  a  hundred 
aiad  twenty-five  answered  roll-call.     Darkness  had 


THE   MARCH   TO   BATTLE.  115 

brought  the  battle  to  a  close.  Our  men  were  or- 
dered into  the  rifle-pits,  and  directed  to  hold  them 
until  re-enforcements  could  arrive.  Re-enforce- 
ments did  come  to  their  relief  during  the  night, 
but  not  until  late.  I  spent  much  of  the  night  in 
assisting  the  wounded  men.  In  the  morning  the 
enemy  was  driven  back  and  our  camp  recovered. 

My  visit  to  the  camp  and  battle-field  was  blood- 
curdling indeed.  The  wounded  had  nearly  all 
been  removed,  and  mostly  by  the  enemy,  but  the 
dead  remained  for  us  to  bury.  The  sight  was  hor- 
rible, and  the  stench  already  sickening.  Men  and 
horses  were  piled  everywhere  in  confusion,  and 
mangled  in  the  most  shocking  manner.  Some 
were  pierced  only  by  the  bullet,  aud  looked  peace- 
ful and  human  in  death,  while  otlierri  were  torn 
almost  to  atoms.  In  many  parts  of  the  field  the 
bhie  and  the  gray  were  mingled  together,  sleeping 
side  by  side  in  death  like  friends,  though  bitterest 
foes  in  life.  On  one  spot,  about  fifteen  feet  square, 
I  counted  twentj'  dead  men ;  and  these  masses  of 
dead  were  common.  Tliey  had  gone  down  under 
the  fire  of  grape ;  and  winnows  had  been  made  in 
their  ranks.  In  many  instances  a  group  of  men 
would  be  lying  dead  under  the  shade  and  protec- 
tion of  a  tree,  whither  as  wounded  men  they  had 
crowded,  and  where  at  last,  in  agony  and  without 
attention,  they   had  died.     For  those   whom  we 


116  THE   LIGHT   OF   OTHER    DAYS. 

could  recognize  we  dug  single  graves,  and  marked 
their  places  of  slumber.  For  the  unrecognized  we 
dug  trenches,  and  buried  them  three  and  four  deep. 
Often  the  dead  of  both  sides  were  commingled  in 
the  same  grave,  thus  to  slee})  until  the  resurrection 
awakenino*. 

W^e  now  removed  to  Dispatch  Station;  but  of 
our  camp  fixtures  nothing  was  worth  the  taking. 
If  anything  of  value  had  escaped,  the  enemy  had 
appropriated  it.  Again  the  battle  raged,  and  once 
more  our  forces  were  pushed  across  the  Chicka- 
hominy.  A  night  was  spent  in  the  rifle-pits.  The 
enemy's  shells  were  falling  about  us.  Evidently 
our  army  was  preparing  to  recross  and  retreat. 
All  night  baggage  trains  were  passing  to  the  rear, 
and  the  cannonading  was  changing  its  locatioii  and 
toward  our  lines.  Morning  came  at  last.  T  was 
sufiering  intensely  fi'om  my  eyes.  I  eat  my  break- 
fast on  a  grave-tablet;  and  in  my  hunger  I  enjoy- 
ed it  none  the  less.  Our  ordnance-master,  J.  W. 
McCoy,  an  early  school-mate,  approached  and  gave 
me  sympathy.  Said  he,  "  This  is  no  place  for  a 
sick  boy ;"  and  he  urged  me  to  the  rear,  assuring 
me  that  there  would  be  warm  work  before  the  day 
was  closed.  He  also  loaned  me  his  glass,  through 
which  I  could  see  the  enemy  across  the  river,  strong- 
ly intrenched.  He  wrote  me  a  pass,  and  gave  di- 
rections for  my  route  to  the  rear.     He  then  kindly 


THE   MARCH   TO    BATTLE.  117 

volunteered  the  use  of  his  horse  for  my  journey. 
This  favor  filled  me  with  gratitude.  It  was  but 
one  of  a  hundred  favors,  however,  recorded  in  my 
heart  as  from  him.  By  this  act,  I  feel  sure  he 
saved  my  life.  His  memory  is  most  sacred  to  me. 
I  had  a  brisk  ride  of  several  hours,  along  gurgling 
brooks,  through  waving  groves,  and  by  golden 
grain-lields,  amid  the  warljling  of  happy  birds.  I 
saw  no  one  but  a  few  negroes  on  the  route.  Tiny 
•were  friendly,  but  shy.  A  ride  of  ten  miles  brought 
me  to  the  main  body  of  our  troops  in  retreat.  I 
delivered  my  horse,  as  directed,  to  the  wagon- 
master,  and  continued  with  the  army  in  their  re- 
treat until  night,  emcamping  at  White  Oak 
Swamps.  I  remained  in  camp  next  day  amid  the 
roar  of  battle,  when  with  a  column  of  men  I  be- 
gan my  rearward  march.  I  was  soon  exhausted, 
and  must  have  lain  down  by  the  way  had  not  an 
ammunition-wagon  driver  kindly  oftered  me  a  ride. 
He  bid  me  lie  low  in  his  wagon,  that  I  might  not 
be  observed.  This  was  not  a  comfortable  position, 
nor  one  of  special  security,  but  I  was  most  grate- 
ful for  it.  I  reached  Malvern  Hill  in  the  night, 
and  here  remained  until  near  the  close  of  the  long- 
continued  battle,  when  I  went  to  Harrison's  Land- 
ing, on  the  James,  and  with  others  encamped  on 
the  grounds  of  a  planter's  home.  The  mansion, 
overseer's  home,  and  the  cabins   of  the   negroes 


118  THE   LIGHT   OF   OTHER  DATS. 

were  filled  with  the  wounded  and  sick,  and  the 
grounds  were  covered  with  tents  for  their  further 
accommodation.  Our  encampment  reached  to  the 
water's  edge;  and  all  was  under  the  protection  of 
the  gun-boats. 


NORTHWARD   AND  HOMEWARD.  119 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

NORTHWARD    AND    HOMEWARD. 

Soon  after  my  arrival  our  regimental  surgeon 
called  me  to  his  head-quarters  and  told  me  that 
from  my  prostrated  condition  and  the  bad  state  of 
my  eyes  he  had  concluded  to  send  me  north,  to 
stay  until  I  was  somewhat  restored.  This  was 
welcome  news  indeed ;  and  I  asked  him  if  I  could 
be  sent  home  to  my  father's,  but  was  disappointed 
in  his  saying  that  I  must  go  to  some  hospital,  where 
I  could  receive  treatment  for  my  eyes.  In  a  few 
hours  he  had  accompanied  me  to  a  boat,  the  City 
of  ]N'ew  York,  loaded  with  sick  and  wounded  sol- 
diers. I  met  with  cordial  expressions  of  sympa- 
thy and  ready  attention  from  the  officers,  surgeons, 
and  nurses.  Dr.  Hartshorn,  a  surgeon  from  Phil- 
adelphia, was  among  the  passengers,  and  showed 
me  very  special  attention.  He  inquired  my  name 
and  place  of  residence,  kindly  examined  my  eyes, 
and  procured  me  many  needed  comforts  on  the  voy- 
aj-e.     At  sunset  we  started  down  the  river.     I  felt 


120  THE   LIGHT   OF   OTHEB  DAYS. 

almost  guilty  in  leaving  the  brave  men  who  were 
Btruggliug  with  the  foe  under  such  discouraging 
circumstances;  yet  I  could  no  longer  be  of  service, 
and  would  only  receive  attention  that  others  stood 
sadly  in  need  of.  I  was  delighted  with  the  idea 
of  going  toward  home,  and  thought  that  possibly 
I  might  soon  see  loved  faces  again. 

All  went  well  for  a  few  miles,  when  just  as  the 
darkness  was  closing  around  us  a  light,  as  of  light- 
ning, j&ashed  shoreward,  and  the  same  instant  a 
shot  whistled  over  our  deck.  A  rebel  battery  had 
assailed  us.  Several  shots  passed  over  us,  and  two 
passed  through  the  vessel.  All  was  excitement, 
and  a  hasty  retreat  was  beaten.  Fortunately  no 
one  was  hurt,  and  the  danger  was  soon  over.  A 
friendly  gun-boat  was  close  behind  us,  which  soon 
cleared  the  shore  of  the  malicious  intruder,  and 
•we  were  enabled  to  proceed  down  the  river  without 
further  molestation.  For  a  day  or  two  we  tarried  at 
Fortress  Monroe,  receiving  coal  and  otherwise  pre- 
paring for  our  voyage.  During  the  journey  little 
of  interest  transpired  beyond  the  deaths  of  perhaps 
a  dozen  of  our  sick  and  wounded.  We  committed 
none  of  them  to  watery  graves,  as  I  supposed 
would  be  the  case,  but  all  were  preserved  for  burial 
on  land.  I  was  intensely  anxious  to  know  our 
destination,  but  I  could  learn  from  no  one.  At 
last  however,  we  were  steaming  up  a  river  which, 


NORTHWARD   AND   HOMEWARD.  121 

to  mj  joy,  I  learned  to  be  the  Delaware.  "We  were 
inakiug  for  Philadelphia,  and  soon  were  at  an- 
chor before  the  wdiarf.  Here  an  immense  crowd 
of  anxious  friends  were  gathered,  looking  tor  or 
seeking  to  learn  of  their  loved  ones.  Ail  were 
Boon  ashore  but  myself  and  another  boy.  The 
meeting  of  friends  occasioned  wild  bursts  of  joy 
from  many,  while  others  stood  in  silence  and  sor- 
row, weeping  that  their  loved  ones  had  not  come 
and  might  never  return. 

"While  the  wounded  were  being  removed  I  rec- 
ognized among  the  crowd  pressing  on  the  boat  in 
search  of  friends  a  Mr.  Green,  who  liad  formerly 
spent  a  season  with  us  as  a  summer  boarder.  He 
knew  me  at  once,  and  desired  to  take  me  to  his 
hom.e  and  care  for  me  there.  But  the  doctor  had 
forbidden  my  leaving  the  boat;  and  when  Mr.  G. 
pressed  his  request,  he  denied,  as  he  insisted,  in 
my  own  interest.  "With  the  other  boy,  I  was  sent 
to  the  Episcopal  Hospital,  in  the  cit}',  where  I  was 
cordially  received  and  kindly  eared  for.  Here  my 
medical  attendance  was  of  the  best  order,  and  my 
spiritual  surroundings  were  all  that  could  be  wish- 
ed. Eev,  Mr.  Paddock  was  chaplain  of  the  insti- 
tution, and  gave  me  careful,  spiritual  attention. 

After  a  few  days'  rest  I  obtained  permission  to  re- 
turn home.  I  was  now  so  near  home  that  I  could 
not  longer  content  myself.     I  was  overjoyed  at  the 


122  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTIIEK   PAYS. 

prospect,  but  kept  all  froni  my  parents,  even  the 
fact  of  my  arrival  in  Philadelphia.  Several  weeks, 
mdeed,  had  elapsed  since  I  had  written  to  them ;  and 
in  the  confusion  of  retreat  and  travel,  together 
with  my  actual,  personal  suffering,  I  had  neglected 
the  small  opportunities  that  seemed  to  offer.  Tak- 
mg  the  train,  I  was  soon  uearing  home  once  more. 
I  determined  to  avoid  observation,  and  make  my 
arrival  a  complete  surprise.  I  soon  left  the  car . 
and  being  accjuainted  with  the  engineer,  I  went 
aboard  the  engine.  I  had,  however,  been  seen  and 
recognized  b}'  an  old  gentleman ;  and,  as  if  to 
give  the  earliest  possible  joy,  he  hurried  to  ap- 
prise my  family  of  my  coming.  I  did  not  leave 
the  engine  until  the  passengers  had  all  alighted, 
and  then  I  started  directly  for  home.  How  I  felt, 
God  only  knows.  There  was  the  old  school-house, 
where  I  had  taken,  as  a  student,  my  first  lessons. 
Near  by  was  the  church  where  we  had  often 
worshiped;  and  yonder  was  my  own  dear  home, 
wherein  were  father,  mother,  sisters,  and  brother, 
unconscious,  as  I  supposed,  of  my  presence.  If 
livins:,  I  knew  their  hearts  were  full  of  love  for  me. 
The  life  that  had  been  so  recklessly  spent  had  been 
preserved,  and  I  was  now  almost  within  the  shad- 
ow of  the  old  home.  I  was  happy  amid  my  peni- 
tence, and  mourned  and  rejoiced  together.  When 
within  a  square  or  so  of  the  house  I  saw  my  fa- 


NORTHWARD   AND   HOMEWARD.  123 

ther  emerge  from  the  door  and  start  toward  me 
on  tlie  run.  His  now  whitened  locks  were  stream- 
ing in  the  wind,  while  in  sobbing  tones  he  was 
crying,  "My  boy,  my  boy."  He  took  me  into  his 
arms  and  pressed  me  to  his  bosom.  Now,  hand  in 
hand,  we  walked  in  the  silence  of  weeping  toward 
the  house.  Mother,  sisters,  and  "Willie  met  me  be- 
fore the  door,  all  crying  for  joy,  and  greeted  me 
with  the  same  aftection  my  father  had  shown. 
We  walked  into  the  house  and  sat  down  in  silence^ 
a  silence  disturbed  only  by  the  broken  sobs  of  all.  I 
thought  myself  a  prodigal  indeed.  The  prodigal  had 
been  greeted  no  more  cordially  than  was  I.  Like 
him,  I  had  wandered  far  from  the  fold,  only  to  re- 
turn and  find  myself  unforgotteu,  still  loved  with 
immeasurable  aiiection,  and  the  recipient  of  the 
best  that  each  and  all  could  give.  The  reckless- 
ness of  my  own  course  was  now  lamented  and  re- 
pented of  with  scalding  tears  and  penitent  prayers  j 
and  I  thought,  never  again  will  I  do  as  in  my 
wickedness  I  have  heretofore  done. 

The  next  day  was  Sabbath,  and  it  was  determin- 
ed that  we  should  all  go  to  church  and  hear  Dr.  An- 
drews, with  a  thank-otfering  in  our  hearts  to  God. 
As  we  passed  into  the  house  of  God  1  obtained  a 
view  of  the  grave  of  my  brother  Ross ;  and  while  I 
missed  the  dear,  dear  boy,  I  thought  him  happy 
that  he  had  not  lived  to  see  and  know  the  world 


124  THE   LIGHT   OF   OTHER  DAYS. 

as  I  had  seen  and  known  it.  Surely,  death  in  the 
sweet  days  of  innocence  leaves  a  record  unmarred 
for  eternity's  retrospections ;  and  the  soul  must  lift 
itself  in  joyful  praise  to  God  while  indulging  the 
bli  ssful  thought, "  I  have  never  sinned'^  Never  could 
I  say  this ;  but  I  dared  hoped  that  yet,  by  his  side, 
I  might  say,  "  I  have  repented  all  my  sins,  and 
they  are  forgiven  me  by  the  precious  Lamb  whose 
blood  has  atoned  for  them,"  How  precious  to  me 
the  spot  where  he  rested ;  how  sacred  the  dust  to 
which  his  infant  body  had  returned.  How  solemn, 
too,  seemed  the  house  of  God,  and  how  welcome 
the  face  and  voice  of  the  minister  at  the  altar.  I 
felt,  indeed,  that  I  was  in  a  sacred  place;  and  in 
my  heart  I  thanked  God  for  one  more  such  Sab- 
bath-day, and  its  worship  by  the  side  of  my  father's 
family. 

My  leave  of  absence  covered  but  ten  days;  and 
these  fleeting  days  were  well  and  happily  improved. 
Friends  came  from  all  sections  and  directions,  va- 
riously inquiring  after  their  own  loved  ones,  and 
wishing  the  rehearsal  of  my  own  experience.  My 
own  friends  were  visited,  not  forgetting  the  home 
of  my  grandfather  Martin,  where  my  last  Sabbath 
at  home  had  been  spent.  The  days  glided  but  too 
swiftly,  and  were  speedily  gone,  necessitating  my 
return  to  the  hospital. 


HOSPITAL   LIFE.  12& 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

HOSPITAL   LIFH   AND   LEAVE    OP   THE   ARMY. 

Their  new  building  was  now  completed,  and  in 
this  I  took  up  my  home.  Soon  some  sixty  ex- 
changed prisoners  from  Libby  arrived,  mostly 
wounded,  many  of  whom  speedily  died.  Shortly 
the  entire  building  was  filled  to  its  utmost  capacity 
with  wounded  and  sick  from  the  front.  From  the 
city  a  large  corps  of  volunteer  nurses,  mostly  la- 
dies, came  in  to  wait  upon  the  needy  and  admin- 
ister comfort  and  consolation.  How  like  angels 
they  seemed,  and  how  noble  at  last  appeared  the 
human  face  divine.  Wonderful,  the  contrast  be- 
tween what  I  had  seen  in  the  camp  and  what  met 
my  gaze  now.  The  expressions  and  phases  of  hu- 
man nature  seemed  so  different  that  relationship 
appeared  almost  impossible.  Yet  if  these  dear 
ladies  were  angels,  as  the  men  gratefully  called 
them,  the  soldiers  were  their  acknowledged  broth- 
ers, and  no  attention  or  sacrifice  seemed  too  much 
for  their  hands  and  their  hearts.  With  great  sat- 
isfaction I  recall  among  these  devoted  helpers  the 


126  THE   LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

family  of  Mr.  John  Welch,  and  several  others,  from 
whom  I  received  attention  in  varied  forms. 

My  eyes  were  receiving  constant  care  and  treat- 
ment, certainly  of  the  most  skillful  kind;  and  1 
supposed  they  were  becoming  daily  and  hourly  im- 
proved. One  day  Dr.  Tliomas  called  me  to  his  of 
fice,  and  after  a  careful  examination  asked  me  how 
I  was  getting  along.  I  told  him  I  felt  greatly  en- 
couraged, and  thought  I  was  doing  well.  Said  he, 
^'  Take  good  care  of  your  eyes,  for  I  fear  they  will 
not  last  you  long."  This  greatly  shocked  me,  and 
I  began  to  realize  for  almost  the  first  time  that  pos- 
sibly I  might  be  blind.  Dr.  Hartshorn  also  called 
often  to  see  me  and  to  inr^uire  after  my  condition. 
My  eyes  were  often  the  topic  of  conversation  and 
the  subject  of  examination  by  physicians,  but  from 
the  technical  language  used  I  could  not  learn  their 
true  condition. 

I  here  witnessed  many  death-bed  scenes,  some ' 
of  wliicli  have  made  life-long  impressions  on  my 
mind.  Some  died  amid  the  triumphs  of  faith,  while 
others  passed  away  in  gloom  and  doubt.  I  sadly 
recall  the  death  of  a  professed  infidel.  He  had 
been  often  visited  by  Rev.  Mr.  P.  and  other  cler- 
gymen ;  but  he  cared  for  none  of  their  counsels, 
and  regarded  not  their  exhortations.  He  v.'ould 
even  follow  their  departure  with  ravings  and  curses. 
JBut  he  sunk  gradually,  and  finally  died,  as  had 


HOSPITAL  LIFE.  127 

been  long  evident  to  all  lie  must.  How  horrible 
his  death !  Conscious  up  to  almost  the  last  mo- 
ment, and  seemingly  convinced  too  late  of  his  fa- 
tal mistake,  he  said,  almost  with  dying  breath,  "I 
am  a  doomed  and  ruined  man." 

Soon  after  I  came  to  the  hos}>ital  I  was  appoint- 
ed post-boy  for  the  institution.  To  the  city  I  went 
daily  with  the  mail,  and  on  other  errands  as  de- 
sired. One  day  I  obtained  permission  to  visit 
Schuylkill  Falls,  and  after  performing  my  usual 
duties  I  took  the  steamer  and  went  up  the  river. 
I  spent  most  of  the  day  pleasantly  at  the  falls. 
On  my  return  I  fell  in  company  with  an  old 
friend,  a  Mr.  Grattz.  We  took  a  street-car  to- 
gether; and  passing  down  Race  Street,  at  the  cor- 
ner of  Race  and  Twentieth  I  observed  a  large, 
line  building,  and  calling  his  attention  to  it  in- 
quired as  to  its  object  and  use.  He  remarked 
that  it  was  an  institution  for  the  blind.  "  Are  the 
blind  treated  here  ?"  I  inquired.  "  N'o,"  said  he, 
"  they  are  educated  here."  For  a  moment  I  was 
overcome  with  the  thought  that  I,  yet,  would  be 
educated  there  as  a  blind  man.  In  vain  I  strove 
to  banish  what  seemed  to  me  more  a  voice  of 
prophecy  than  a  mere  thought  of  the  excited  im- 
agination— years  after  I  might  come  this  way 
again ;  time  would  show. 

One  would  have  supposed  that  the  experience  of 


128  THE    LIGHT   OF   OTHER  DAYS 

a  few  months  past  would  have  sufficed  to  entirely 
reform  my  life.  The  harrowing  scenes  of  the  hos- 
pital had  destroyed  my  love  for  card-playing;  and 
though  others  amid  those  daily  scenes  of  death 
found  pleasure  therein,  yet  I  had  quit  the  habit. 
Profanity,  too,  had  ceased  to  be  a  common  habit, 
although  not  entirely  relinquished.  In  moments 
of  auger  I  would  lift  my  voice  against  the  Al- 
mighty who  had  ^iven  me  life  and  preserved  my 
being. 

Eeturning  to  the  hospital  one  evening,  I  learned 
that  Lieutenant  McCoy  had  been  there  from  our 
regiment,  gathering  up  recruits.  He  asked  for 
me  ;  and  I  was  greatly  disappointed  that  I  had  not 
been  there  to  see  him,  and  thus  arrange  for  my  re- 
turn. I  had  by  no  means  relinquished  the  idea  of 
returning  to  the  field  again.  Moreover,  I  thought 
myself  sufficiently  recovered  to  enter  the  service 
at  once  for  my  usual  duty.  I  was  tired  of  the 
hospital,  and  anxious  for  my  old  companions 
and  the  exciting  scenes  of  army-life.  But  the 
lieutenant  had  gone  without  me,  which  was  plain 
assurance  that  I  was  regarded  as  unfit  for  duty. 
Very  soon  the  doctor  called  me  to  his  office  and 
said  that  he  had  sent  for  my  descriptive  list,  pre- 
paratory to  my  discharge  from  the  service ;  that 
my  eyes  were  very  bad;  that  they  were  getting 
worse  daily,  and  would  last  me  but  a  short  time. 


HOSPITAL   LIFE.  129 

He  had  reported  me  to  the  lieutenant  as  unfit  for 
further  service.  I  was  depressed  at  the  assurance 
that  I  was  to  be  discharged,  and  absolutely  horri- 
fied at  what  the  doctor  said  of  ray  eyes.  Of  course 
my  father's  admonition  came  back  to  me  once 
more ;  and  now  I  regretted  intensely  that  I  had  not 
allowed  myself  to  be  persuaded  by  him,  and  obeyed 
his  kind  admonitions.  A  week  passed,  and  my 
discharge  papers  came. 

The  thought  of  going  home  this  time  awakened 
no  feelings  of  satisfaction.  I  could  no  longer  be 
welcomed  as  a  soldier,  and  I  had  no  prospect  of 
immediate  return.  My  eyes  were  seemingly  im- 
proved in  that  they  pained  me  now  but  little,  and 
appeared  not  to  be  bad.  I  could,  however,  read 
only  with  difiiculty,  and  after  night  I  did  not  easily 
get  aljout.  On  reaching  home  I  did  not  acquaint 
my  folks  with  the  true  condition  of  my  eyes,  and 
studied  in  every  way  to  conceal  such  knowledge 
from  them.  Home  soon  became  a  round  of  mo- 
notonous scenes,  and  the  relish  for  home  society 
too  soon  began  to  wear  away.  I  longed  to  go 
forth  once  more  into  the  busy,  outside  world.  Its 
wonderful  activity  and  excitement  I  had  enjoyed, 
and  I  wished  and  determined  to  see  more  of  it. 
The  terrible  thought  that  soon  I  might  forever 
close  my  eyes  upon  nature  determined  me  to  act 
promptly,   if   not  morally  and  profitably.     This 


130  THE   LIGHT   OF   OTHER  DATS. 

conatant  uneasiness  on  my  part  was  noticed  by  my 
parents,  and  greatly  pained  them.  They  had 
longed  fo-r  my  return,  and  thanked  God  that  at 
last  their  roving  boy  was  once  more  beneath  their 
roof.  Out  of  ten  thousand  dangers,  led  by  a  gra- 
cious Providence,  I  had  come  forth  to  them.  With 
them  I  might  have  continued  in  peace  and  security, 
and  given  their  aching  hearts  some  relief  if  I  had 
chosen.  But  no;  I  must  go  forth  again,  and  thus 
bring  new  and  freah  trouble  to  hearts  already  bro- 
ken by  my  foolish  and  maddened  career. 

Without  my  knowledge,  and  hoping  thereby  to 
anchor  me  near  by  home,  my  father  had  secured 
for  me  a  situation  as  clerk,  in  a  store  in  Philadel- 
phia. 1  was  glad  to  go,  and  intended  to  give 
close  attention  to  business.  I  was  not,  however, 
suited  with  my  position,  and  found  also  much 
trouble  in  rendering  the  service  required  of  me  at 
night,  from  the  dimness  of  my  vision.  I  deter- 
mined, therefore,  at  the  end  of  one  week  to  return 
home.  With  partial  contentedness  I  continued 
with  my  parents  now  until  toward  spring,  when 
with  the  return  of  warm  weather  I  again  became 
uneasy,  and  determined  to  see  something  of  the 
world.  Ocean  life,  as  it  had  been  pictured  to  me 
by  the  fancies  of  story-writers,  came  vividly  back 
to  me  in  all  its  golden  colors,  and  I  longed  to  be  a 
sailor;  not,  however,  so  much  for  the  duties  of  a 


HOSPITAL   LIFE.  131 

sailor's  life  as  the  constant  changes  it  would  bring 
to  my  decaying  vision.  I  hoped  to  ship  to  some 
foreign  port,  and  thus  visit  the  nations  of  the  Old 
World. 

I  told  my  mother  one  day  that  I  was  going  down 
to  Philadelphia.  She  supposing  it  to  be  my  pur- 
pose to  return  to  the  store  again,  prepared  me  but 
a  change,  with  a  few  most  needed  things,  for  a 
brief  absence.  In  a  short  time,  she  thought,  I  would 
be  home  again,  and  she  would  more  generously  pro- 
vide for  my  wants.  It  was  well  that  she  was  cheer- 
ed by  such  a  hope,  and  saw  not  the  future  with 
its  thick  and  gathering  clouds.  What  a  weight  of 
sorrow  and  anxiety  is  often  piled  upon  a  dear 
mother's  heart  by  a  wayward  son.  Joy  and  glad- 
ness only  should  be  borne  to  them  from  us.  Heavy 
hearts  will  they  have  even  if  love  only  be  our  of- 
ferings 


132  THE    LIGHT   OF   OTHER  DAYS. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

WILD   ADVENTURES. 

On  my  way  to  Philadelpliia  I  met  an  old  school- 
mate, who  had  been  home  on  a  brief  furlough  from 
the  front.  He  was  now  returning  again  to  the 
field  for  further  duty.  We  went  to  the  theater  to- 
gether that  night,  and  spent  the  next  day  like  fool- 
ish and  fast  young  men.  I  now  sought  to  obtain 
a  position  among  the  vessels  as  cabin-boy.  Old 
sailors  admonished  me  against  accepting  the  dan- 
gers and  privations  of  a  sailor's  life,  and  exchanging 
home  for  its  evils  and  toils.  They  knew  of  what 
they  spoke,  and  could  have  abundantly  confirmed 
all  of  their  convictions  from  their  personal  ex- 
periences. But  I  was  in  no  condition  to  accept 
such  advice.  I  would  see  the  world,  whatever  the 
dangers  and  privations  that  awaited  me.  Unmind- 
ful of  their  warnings,  I  rambled  on  among  the 
vessels,  but  was  rejected  everywhere  as  unsuited 
to  the  wants  of  all.  Toward  dark,  weary  and  hun- 
gry, I  felt  like  despairing,  and  was  about  to  turn 
away  from  the  river,  when  I  saw  a  large  schooner 


WILD   ADVENTURES.  133 

lying  at  Dock-Street  wharf.  I  thought  I  would 
try  once  more.  I  saw  no  person  on  board,  but 
heard  voices  from  below,  and  so  proceeded  on  deck. 
I  descended  to  the  cabin  and  saw  about  a  dozen 
men,  mostly  drunk,  and  carousing  over  a  large 
jug  of  rum.  Gazing  upon  the  scene  in  silence  for 
a  moment,  I  thought  to  turn  away,  for  with  the 
sight  I  was  both  shocked  and  disgusted.  But  I 
had  no  money  left,  had  had  no  supper,  and  knew 
not  where  I  could  obtain  a  lodging.  To  go  home 
was  now  out  of  the  question,  and  I  resolved,  there- 
,fore,  to  accept  any  chance,  with  anybody  and  for 
any  labor.  I  said,  finally,  "  Is  the  captain  of  this 
vessel  present?"  In  response  to  my  inquiry  I  had 
pointed  out  to  me  a  large,  burly -looking  fellow  as 
the  one  who  bore  the  honors  of  the  position.  "Do 
you  wish  a  boy,  captain?''  "I  wish  a  cook,"  said 
he.  "I  can  cook,"  I  replied,  remembering  that  I 
had  seen  some  service  of  that  sort  in  the  army. 
*' If  you  will  work  for  $12.00  per  month,  and  give 
us  plenty  to  eat,  you  can  come  aboard."  "  How 
soon  can  I  come  ?"  "  In  an  hour,  as  we  wish  to 
sail."  I  soon  returned  with  my  bundle,  and  pre- 
pared supper  for  the  crew  to  the  best  of  my  abili- 
ty. All  was  satisfactor}',  as  I  supposed,  as  no  fault 
was  found.  However,  they  were  from  their  intox- 
ication but  poor  judges  at  best. 

A  tug-boat  now  towed  ua  down  the  river  for 


134  THE   LIGHT   OF   OTHER   DAYS. 

several  miles,  when  the  vessel  set  sail  for  her  in- 
tended point.  Preparing  bread  for  the  morning,  I 
gladly  retired  for  my  rest.  I  found  next  day  that 
poor  bread  was  the  result  of  my  first  eflbrt  in  that 
line ;  and  the-  captain  showed  his  appreciation  of 
my  failure  by  tauntings  and  sharp  reproofs.  I  had 
seen  rough  men  before,  but  never  such  conduct  as 
these  men  exhibited.  I  saw  that  I  had  made  a 
great  mistake  in  shipping  with  them,  and  would 
have  been  quite  as  well  ofl'  in  the  streets  of  the 
city,  a  beggar  for  my  bread.  But  it  was  too  kite 
to  correct  my  mistake,  and  I  must  go  forward  and 
make  the  best  of  it.  In  my  anxiety  to  board  the 
vessel  I  had  not  even  inquired  its  destination.  For- 
tunately for  me,  its  voyage  was  not  to  be  extended. 
Its  destination  was  Chesapeake  Bay,  and  ite  ob- 
ject a  cargo  of  oysters  for  the  city.  Fairly  under 
way,  we  encountered  a  severe  storm.  The  vessel 
sprung  a  leak,  and  several  inches  of  water  came 
into  the  cabin.  I  became  very  sea-sick,  and  some- 
what terrified.  I  was  ordered  to  work,  as  soon  as 
able,  in  different  parts  of  the  ship,  as  I  found  time 
outside  of  my  regular  duties  as  cook.  I  made  poor 
progress  in  the  general  labor,  and  was  rewarded 
with  almost  constant  curses.  I  found  that  the  ves- 
sel was  an  old,  abandoned  ship,  and  wholly  unfit 
for  service. 

The  vessel  finally  made  harbor  safely,  and  we 


WILD  ADVENTURES.  135 

tarried  until  the  fury  of  the  storm  abated.  "When 
Sabbath  came  I  expected  rest,  but  found  that  the 
men  took  no  account  of  it.  I  was  shocked  at  this 
desecration,  for  with  all  my  roughness  I  had  ever 
sacredly  observed  this  day.  My  Puritanical  in- 
structions had  sanctified  the  day  to  me.  The  ves- 
sel was  but  partly  loaded,  when  its  leaky  condition 
admonished  the  men  that  they  must  desist  and  re- 
turn as  speedily  as  possible.  "We  got  safely  to 
within  some  fifteen  miles  of  Phildelphia,  when  the 
vessel  grounded,  from  the  intoxicated  condition  of 
the  helmsman.  I  saw  but  little  chance  for  imme- 
diate sailing;  and  I  importuned  the  captain  to  pay 
me  off  and  put  me  ashore  at  Chester.  He  refused 
to  pay  me  anything  before  reaching  Philadelphia, 
but  ordered  two  of  his  men  to  row  me  ashore. 
When  within  fifty  yards  of  the  shore  they,  for  the 
supposed  fun  of  the  thing,  dumped  me  into  the 
stream,  left  me  to  the  mercy  of  the  waves,  and  re- 
turned toward  the  ship.  Being  a  good  swimmer, 
I  finally  made  the  shore,  but  in  an  exhausted  con- 
dition. Some  young  men  while  bathing  had  no- 
ticed the  entire  action.  Finding  me  penniless, 
they  took  up  a  collection  of  a  dollar,  and  I  board- 
ed the  train  for  Philadelphia.  On  my  arrival  1 
called  on  a  Mr.  Thornton,  whom  I  knew  to  be  in- 
terested in  the  ownership  of  the  vessel,  and  told 
him  my  story.     He  kindly  paid  me  oS,  and  hired 


136  THE   LIGHT   OF   OTHER   DAYS. 

me  to  work  in  unloading  the  vessel  on  its  arrival. 
Being  badly  treated  by  the  wharf-boys,  I  remained 
but  a  week  with  him. 

At  this  junction  of  aliairs  my  father  came  for 
me,  and  pleaded  with  me  to  go  home  with  him. 
I  finally  concluded  to  do  so ;  but  on  the  way  to 
the  depot  he  took  occasion  to  reprove  me  for  my 
general  course  and  conduct.  His  criticisms  were 
altogether  just,  and  with  the  tenderness  of  a  fa- 
ther ;  but  my  heart  was  altogether  wrong,  and  I 
was  in  no  condition  for  even  gentle  reproof.  It 
was  almost  nothing  to  me  that  my  mother  was 
wasting  her  very  life  in  mourning  over  my  course. 
I  could  even  add  further  weight  to  her  grief,  and 
burden  her  heart  with  yet  greater  sorrow.  At  a 
corner  I  dodged  my  father,  and  by  running  was 
soon  out  of  his  sight  and  beyond  his  reach.  The 
poor,  despairing  man  must  now  go  back  to  his 
home  alone,  with  only  new  evidence  of  my  profli- 
gacy and  unworthiness.  What  wonder  if  then  his 
heart  had  steeled  against  me,  and  even  if  a  moth- 
er's love  had  changed  into  the  coolest  indifterence? 
But  I  knew  that  this  could  not  be  so.  While  my 
mother  lived  she  would  love  her  wayward  son,  and 
daily  pray  for  his  moral  recovery  and  speedy  re- 
turn. 

I  now  determined  to  sail  again.  I  found  a  ves- 
sel going  to  Boston,  and  obtained  the  position  of 


WILD   ADVENTURES.  13'7 

assistant  cook.  This  was  a  large,  fiue  schooner, 
belonging  to  Buxton,  Maine.  The  captain  was  a 
perfect  gentleman ;  and  he  and  his  wife  showed  me 
the  kindest  possible  attention.  We  had  a  delight- 
ful trip  to  Boston,  but  nothing  of  interest  and  de- 
serving special  note  occurred  during  its  progress. 
The  captain  offered  me  constant  employment  and 
fair  wages  if  I  would  remain  on  his  vessel;  but 
wishing  to  see  Boston,  I  preferred  to  decline  his 
ofler  and  remain  for  a  time  in  the  city.  After  vis- 
iting Quincy  Markets  I  found  near  by  accommo- 
dations for  board,  at  $5.00  per  week.  I  hardly  had 
enough  to  pay  two  weeks"  board  at  these  figures, 
and  began  to  feel  the  want  of  clothincj  as  well  as 
boarding.  My  boarding-master,  a  Mr.  Clark, 
showed  me  great  kindness  at  lirst — a  kindness  that 
altogether  surprised  me.  With  him  I  visited  Bos- 
ton Commons,  and  tried  to  enlist.  I  was  about 
being  accepted,  when  the  condition  of  my  eyes 
being  noticed  in  the  last  moment,  I  was  rejected. 
He  then  tried  to  enlist  me  in  the  navy,  representing 
me  as  an  English  orphan  boy,  lately  arrived  in 
this  country.  In  this,  however,  he  failed.  Mean- 
time my  money  was  all  gone,  and  I  was  in  arrears 
for  board  some  $20.00.  My  clothes  were  thread- 
bare ;  and  I  complained  to  Mr.  Clark  of  my  ap- 
pearance. He  offered  me  an  order  on  the  tailor 
for  a  suit.     This  I  declined  to  take;  and  he  ac- 


138  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

companied  me  personally  to  the  mercliant'e  and 
furnished  me  with  an  entire  suit  of  navy  clothes. 
I  was  astonished,  and  asked  him  where  his  pay 
was  to  come  from.  He  said,  "  Never  mind,  now ; 
I  will  find  something  for  you  after  a  brief  time." 
He  proposed  that  I  ship  as  a  sailor,  which  I  readi- 
ly consented  to  do,  but  feared  I  would  be  rejected 
from  inexperience. 

And  now  another  boy  arrived  at  Mr.  Clark's. 
He  had  been  there  before.  He  was  about  my  own 
age,  was  very  fast,  and  had  spent  a  time  for  crim- 
inal misconduct  in  the  tombs.  Together  we  went 
with  Clark  to  the  shipping  offices,  and  inquired 
for  opportunities  for  shipping  boys,  but  without 
immediate  results.  The  Fourth  of  July  came ;  and 
I  thought  myself  in  a  delightful  place  to  spend  the 
day,  if  I  only  had  money.  And  to  my  happy  sur- 
prise Clark,  in  the  early  morning,  handed  me  a 
five-dollar  bill,  insisting  simply  on  my  return  at 
five  o'clock,  as  he  had  work  for  me.  The  wonder- 
ful fascinations  of  the  day  held  me  still  later  than 
this;  and  when,  about  dark,  I  did  return,  I  found 
Mr.  Clark  very  much  out  of  humor,  and  received, 
much  as  I  deserved,  a  very  severe  reprimand.  He 
said  he  had  a  good  job  for  me,  but  I  had  come  too 
late  for  it.  A  few  days  afterward  he  came  to  us 
on  Boston  Commons,  and  said,  "  Come  immediate- 
ly; I  have  a  job  for  you."     "We  went  with  him  to 


WILD   ADVENTURES.  13& 

the  shipping-office,  and  he  engaged  in  low  conver- 
sation with  a  bloated   fellow  at  the   desk.     This 
stranger  soon  approached,  complimenting  us  with, 
"You  will  make  fine  sailors,  my^boys."     At  this 
point  a  short,  lean,  gray -haired  German,  with  sailor- 
like manners,  entered  the  office  and   said  to  Mr. 
Clark,  "Veil,  you  have   de  poys."     "Yes,"  said 
Mr.  Clark,  pointing  to  me  ;  "  here  is  a  boy  that  can 
take  down  a  royal  yard  for  you  in  the  twinkling  of 
an  eye."     "  Captain  Sourbier,"  said  Mr.  Clark  to 
me.     I  advanced  and  shook  hands  with  the  cap- 
tain, thinking,  meanwhile,  that  his  name  sounded 
quite  as  funny  as  he  was  himself  in  appearance. 
"Have  you  ever  peen  to  sea,  my  poy?"     I  said 
yes,  calling  to  mind  my  recent  ventures.     "  Veil, 
Mr.  Clark,  how  much  you  vant  for  de  poy  ?"    They 
advanced  to  the  desk  and  engaged  in  an  undertone 
talk ;  and  the  captain  paid  over  a  sum  of  money 
to  the  shipping  master.     At  this  transaction  ]SIr. 
Clark  seemed  pleased ;  and  I  began  to  understand 
that  there  was  business  before  me.     My  days  of 
leisure  and  city  sight-seeing  appeared,  with  this 
new  scene,  to  be  about  closing  up  ;  and  I  naturally 
wished  to  understand  somewhat  further  about  the 
transaction,  inasmuch  as  I  was  a  party  deeply  in- 
terested in  the   case.     The  captain,  now  drawing 
near  to  me,  said,  "  How  long,  my  poy,  have  you 
peen  a  sailor?"     Mr.  Clark  gave  me  no  time  to 


140  THE  LiaHT   OF    OTHER   DATS. 

answer,  but  at  ouce  responded,  "  He  has  been  on 
one  voyage  only,"  Several  nautical  questions  were 
propounded,  which,  by  Clark's  help,  I  managed  to 
answer.  The  captain,  however,  seemed  satisfied, 
and  said  quite  pleasantly,  "  Yen  you  be  a  good  poy, 
I  vill  give  you  blenty  money."  In  short,  he  would 
do  for  me  anything  and  everything  if  I  would  be 
good;  and  he  would  also  take  me  to  his  home  in 
Germany. 

I  had  made  no  inquiry  of  Mr.  Clark  as  to  the 
whereabouts  of  the  vessel  I  was  to  sail  in,  nor  its 
destination ;  and  now  everything  was  conducted 
so  strangely  that  I  was  quite  bewildered,  and  real- 
ly supposed  this  would  end  very  much  like  other 
attempts  of  the  same  sort.  On  inquir}',  I  found 
that  Sourbier  was  both  commander  and  proprietor 
of  his  vessel,  a  German  trader,  and  that  he  was 
running'  between  New  York  and  South  America. 
He  was  now  bound  for  Eio  Janeiro,  Brazil ;  and 
from  thence  he  intended  returning  to  Germany. 

Clark  seemed  very  nervous  and  impatient  during 
our  conversation,  and  finally  interrupted  our  talk 
with,  "  Come,  we  must  go  ;  here  it  is  four  o'clock." 
The  captain  said,  as  we  arose  to  go,  "  Come  mit 
de  poys  at  five  o'clock."  "All  right,  captain," 
said  Clark ;  "  we  will  be  on  hand  promptly."  He 
took  us  directly  to  a  sailor's  furnishing  store  and 
said,  "  Now,  boys,  buy  what  you  wish."     I  gazed 


WILD   ADVENTUFES.  141 

about  for  a  moment,  seeing  everything  conceivable 
in  the  sailor's  line.  Various  kinds  of  clothing,  and 
every  variety  of  utensils  needed  by  a  sailor,  either 
for  his  comfort  or  amusement,  were  there.  I  said, 
"I  do  not  know  what  I  want.  Buy  me  what  you 
choose."  I  knew,  too,  that  I  had  no  money  with 
which  to  make  purchases.  Clark  then  said  to  the 
clerk,  "Put  them  each  up  a  pair  of  hickories 
[shirts],  two  pairs  of  pants,  knife,  pipe  and  tobac- 
co, and  throw  them  in  a  pair  of  dunkeries  [over- 
alls]." A  few  minutes  sufficed  for  this,  and  I  went 
to  the  house  to  give  the  folks  good-by.  This  made 
me  think  of  home ;  for  however  strange  these  trans- 
actions were,  the  house  of  Clark  had  become  a 
home  for  me.  I  was  troubled  intensely  with  my 
thoughts  of  home;  and  the  vision  of  my  gray- 
haired  father  and  sorrowing  mother  came  up  dis- 
turbingly to  me.  I  said  to  Clark,  "  You  must  give 
me  a  few  minutes  in  which  to  write  to  my  folk^. 
Up  to  this  time  I  had,  to  my  shame,  written  them 
nothing;  neither  had  they,  as  I  know  of,  heard 
one  word  of  me  since  I  left  my  father  at  a  street- 
corner  in  Philadelphia.  I  wrote  my  letter  and 
handed  it  to  Clark,  with  the  request  that  he  X'ost 
it.  This  service  he  promised ;  but  as  the  letter  nev- 
er reached  my  father,  I  have  no  reason  to  believe 
he  ever  performed  it.  I  wrote  my  father  but  a 
few  lines,  telling  him  of  my  health  •  that  I  was 


142  THE   LIGHT   OF   OTHER   DATS. 

now  in  Boston,  but  expected  to  leave  at  once 
to  be  gone  a  good  while;  wishing  them  to  be  of 
good  cheer,  etc.  I  asked  no  response,  as  much  as 
I  wished  to  hear  from  home,  as  I  knew  not  where 
I  could  receive  a  letter  from  them.  Clark,  in  whose 
hands  I  now  felt  myself  an  unwilling  prisoner, 
■called  on  me  to  hurry  up  my  writing  and  come  on. 
We  returned  to  the  store,  where  a  wagon  was  in 
waiting,  by  which,  after  a  few  minutes'  drive,  we 
reached  the  wharf,  where  we  found  a  boat  in  wait- 
ing. This  was  manned  by  four  burly  oarsmen, 
who  received  us  on  board,  and  after  our  farewells 
to  Clark  rowed  us  out  to  the  ship,  a  half  mile  dis- 
taut. 


A  HOME   ON   THE   DEEP.  143 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

A   HOME   ON   THE   DEEP. 

Once  upon  the  vessel,  I  lixed  my  eyes  only  on 
the  receding  boat,  watching  the  progress  of  the 
oarsmen  until  they  nearly  reached  the  shore.  Then, 
with  heavy  heart,  I  turned  to  inspect  the  ship,  my 
future  floating  home.  It  was  what  is  known  as  a 
bark,  or  a  vessel  with  three  masts,  having  her 
fore  and  main  masts  rigged  as  a  ship,  and  her  miz- 
zen,  or  hind-mast  sail,  as  a  schooner.  It  was  a 
goodly  vessel,  stoutly  built,  but  old  enough  to  show 
that  she  had  passed  through  many  a  storm  and  had 
received  their  blackening  signs. 

Captain  Sourbier  was  engaged  in  sweeping  the 
deck,  and  in  the  enjoyment  of  his  short-stemmed 
pipe  seemed  at  lirst  wholly  unconscious  of  our  ar- 
rival. The  crew,  which  consisted  of  some  dozen 
or  fifteen  men,  were  loungiug  about  the  ship  as 
though  they,  instead  of  the  captain,  were  her  pro- 
prietors. I  was  not  pleased  at  all,  either  with  the 
general  appearance  of  things  or  with  the  men.  I 
determined,  in  my  tracks,  that  if  ever  opportunity 


144  THE   LIGHT   OF   OTHER  DAYS. 

should  ofier  I  would  steal  away  from  such  a  place 
as  that.  Thoughts  of  the  dear  home  I  had  left  so 
foolishl}^  that  I  might  realize  the  glory  of  ocean- 
life,  hut  increased  this  determination  within  me. 
Still,  the  impossibility  of  escape  seemed  absolute, 
and  I  felt  that  at  once  I  might  as  well  banish  such 
a  notion  from  my  mind.  At  last  the  captain  threw 
down  his  broom  and  called  to  the  mate,  with  whom 
he  exchanged  some  words  in  German.  The  mate 
smilingly  called  us  and  bid  us  follow  him.  He 
led  the  way  to  the  forecastle,  the  part  of  the  ves- 
sel where  the  sailors  live.  Pointing  to  the  com- 
panion way,  he  told  ns  to  go  below  and  put  away 
our  goods.  Here  we  found  the  roughest  and  fil- 
thiest looking  place  I  was  ever  in.  A  short,  flabby 
Dutchman  sat  on  a  chest  mending  his  torn  and 
well-worn  pants.  This  was  the  cook  of  the  vessel. 
He  pointed  out  to  us  our  berths,  in  which  we  put 
our  clothins:.  After  a  word  of  further  conversa- 
tion  with  this  fellow,  we  went  above  again  to  the 
deck.  The  fat  German  from  below,  however,  fol- 
lowed us  up,  and  insisted  on  further  conversation. 
"Vat  for  you  come  on  a  German  ship?  You  no 
speak  German."  Noticing  a  large  lot  of  cabbage, 
turnips,  beef,  etc.,  near  the  galley,  or  ship's  kitch- 
en, I  said,  "  I  guess  we  will  get  along  well  with  the 
Germans :  I  see  you  live  pretty  well."  Laughing, 
he  said,  "  You  like  dot  stufl'?    Ve  not  get  so  good 


A   HOME    ON   THE    DEEP.  145 

eat  by  and  by.  You  like  peaus?"  "Yes,"  said  I, 
"I  became  very  fond  of  them  while  in  the  army." 
The  captain  apj)roaching,  the  cook  retired  to 
the  galley  for  his  duties.  The  captain  was  armed 
with  a  heavy  broom,  and  an  he  approached  he  said, 
"You  got  notings  to  do,  hey?  You  come  mit 
me,  I'll  giff  you  somedings."  He  put  us  to  sweep- 
ing the  deck,  which  was  already  clean  from  the 
sweeping  of  others.  Dan,  my  mate,  was  evident- 
ly homesick  already;  and  he  said  to  me  as  we  be- 
gan to  sweep,  "Jimmy,  I  don't  like  this  old  Dutch- 
man. What  do  you  think  of  him?"  He  waited 
not  for  my  opinion,  which,  if  expressed,  would 
have  been  in  perfect  accord  with  his  own.  "Let 
us  go  ashore,"  said  Dan.  "  What  for,  and  how?" 
said  I.  "  We'll  tell  the  captain  that  we  have  no 
oil-skins,  and  he  will  let  us  have  the  boat  to  go 
for  them."  This,  I  well  knew,  was  presuming  too 
much,  for  our  Dutch  captain  was  not  altogether 
dumb.  These  oil-skins  were  needed  as  protections 
from  the  storm,  and  we  should  have  had  them. 
They  were  to  be  mentioned,  however,  only  as  a  pre- 
text. We  knew  we  had  no  money  with  which  to 
buy  them  if  we  were  ashore.  Advancing  to  the 
captain  we  told  him  our  wish,  but  were  met,  of 
course,  with  his  flat  and  angry  refusal.  He  doubt- 
less knew  what  we  wanted  as  well  asw^e  ourselves 
Dan  showed  his  rage,  and  told  the  captain  to  keep 

10 


146  THE   LIGHT    OF    OTHER    DAYS. 

his  boat,  saying  to  me  aside  that  he  would  go  ashore 
when  he  wanted  to.  Returning  to  the  forecastle, 
the  cook  laughed  heartily  and  tauntingly  at  our 
expense  and  confusion.  He  had  overheard  the 
conversation,  and  had  enjoyed  our  rebuff. 

Supper  was  now  announced;  but  it  was  too  coarse 
and  unpalatable  for  relishing,  and  I  could  eat  hard- 
ly anything.  I  now  saw  but  too  plainly  that  I  had 
been  fearfully  imposed  upon,  and  began  to  fear  for 
the  future.  I  thought  again  of  my  father's  ad- 
monitions, and  of  his  pale,  care-worn  face.  I 
wished  now  for  my  mother's  table  and  the  sweet 
tokens  of  her  love.  But  home  was  far  away,  and 
voluntarily  and  cruelly  I  had  wandered  from  it. 
I  was  the  only  guilty  one;  and  I  would  have 
thanked  God  could  I  have  known  that  I  was  the 
only  suftering  one.  Other  hearts,  however,  were 
bleeding  besides  my  own ;  and  those  hearts  were 
beating  in  perfect  innocence 

The  lights  of  the  city  were  now  flashing  and 
flickering  in  the  distance ;  and  while  I  was  wish- 
ing myself  once  more  upon  solid  ground,  and  amid 
their  pleasant  blaze,  the  mate's  voice  attracted  my 
attention.  He  directed  me  to  take  my  turn  on 
watch,  and  told  Dan  to  go  below.  I  hardly  knew 
the  nature  of  the  duty  required,  but  knew  well 
enough  that  no  sleep  would  be  allowed.  I  pre- 
pared, therefore,  for  wakeful  work  by  going  be- 


A  HOME    ON   THE   DEEP.  147 

low  for  tobacco  and  pipe.  Thus  armed,  I  proceed- 
ed to  the  forcastle,  when  I  was  directed  to  keep  a 
sharp  lookout.  Lighting  my  pipe,  I  began  my 
pacing  and  my  smoking.  Most  of  the  sailors  had 
retired,  a  few  only  remaining  above,  humming 
their  old  German  tunes.  A  little  later  Dan  came 
to  my  side  silently  and  said,  "  Jimmy,  I  shall  not 
fitay  in  this  old  box.  This  crew  is  wicked  enough 
to  eat  a  fellow.*'  I  had  began  to  think  as  much, 
but  refrained  just  then  from  any  confirmation  of 
his  views.  "Had  I  known  this  vessel,"  I  said,  "I 
would  never  have  come  aboard  of  her."  "Old 
Clark,"  said  he,  "  is  a  villain.  He  is  mean  enough 
to  send  a  fellow  anywhere,  if  he  can  make  a  dollar 
by  it."  With  me  the  proceedings  of  the  past  twen- 
ty-four hours  had  seemed  very  mysterious,  and 
withal  darkly  underhanded.  Evidently  he  was  re- 
lieved at  my  going,  which  I  could  explain  on  no 
principle  of  professed  friendship.  His  course  had 
been  strange,  and  I  wholly  misunderstood  it. 
"How  much  advance  pay  did  he  get  out  of  you?" 
Dan  asked.  "Advance?"  said  I,  "what  do  you 
mean  ?"  "How  much  pay  did  the  shipper  give 
him  for  you  ?"  This  was  all  news  to  me;  and  now 
it  came  to  my  mind  at  once  that  Clark  had  kept 
and  shipped  me  wholly  as  a  matter  of  personal 
profit.  Had  he  enlisted  me,  as  he  first  hoped,  he 
would  have  obtained  a  bounty  and  advance  pay  at 


148  THE   LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DATS. 

my  expense ;  and  now,  as  it  afterward  proved,  lie 
had  received  two  months'  pay,  having  shipped  me 
at  §25.00  per  month. 

I  now  awakened  to  the  fact  that  I  was  sold,  lit- 
erally, to  a  service  for  which  I  had  no  qualification, 
and  of  which  I  knew  absolutely  nothing.  I,  too, 
had  been  a  party  to  the  dece}ition  of  the  captain, 
that  I  might  please  Clark,  ^vhom  I  had  taken 
for  a  friend.  I  had  bound  my  own  hands  with 
chains  of  more  than  steel;  and  I  was  to  pay 
but  too  dearly  for  all  the  benefits  I  had  gained 
from  a  supposed  friend.  I  dreaded  the  wrath  of 
Captain  Sourbier  when  he  shinild  come  to  learn 
that  I  was  inexperienced,  and  partially  blind  as 
well.  It  was  agrand  imposition  on  him,  and  one 
for  which  I  was  grossly  guilty  myself. 

"But,"  said  Dan,  "I  am  determined  to  get  out 
of  this."  "  How  can  you  ?"  said  I.  "  The  captain 
will  not  let  you  have  the  boat."  "ZsTever  mind," 
said  he,  "I  will  fix  that.  The  question  is,  Will 
you  go  with  meV  Clark  has  shanghaied  you  into 
this  service."  He  then  detailed  to  me  his  plan  oi 
escape.  The  captain's  gig,  or  light  boat,  was 
dangling  loosely  from  the  cranes  on  the  quarter- 
deck. It  was  only  necessary  to  let  go  the  halyards 
and  drop  the  boat  into  the  water.  Thi-s  would 
create  some  noise;  but  he  had  a  remedy  against 
that.     Dan  proposed  to  loosen  the  boat  after  all 


A   HOME   ON   THE   DEEP.  149 

became  quiet.  He  wbs  snre  we  could  reach  tlie 
shore  iu  safety ;  and  then  we  would  quickly  leave 
the  city.  The  captain  was  sleeping  so  near  by  that 
I  was  sure  he  would  hear  the  falling  of  the  boat, 
and  tliat  any  attempt  at  escape  would  cost  us  our 
lives.  I  wished  to  leave  the  ship  most  heartily,  and 
thus  get  back  home  again ;  but  rather  than  run 
the  chances  of  losing  life,  I  would  prefer  to  stay 
aboard  the  ship.  But  Dan  was  determined  not  to 
be  put  off  by  my  lack  of  courage  and  indecision. 
"Would  I  not  go,  he  would  take  the  chances  alone. 
So,  bidding  me  good-niglit,  he  went  below,  and  I 
continued  my  pacing  and  my  smoking. 

All  was  quiet,  save  the  splash  of  the  policemens' 
boat-oars  as  they  passed  up  and  down  the  harbor. 
I  had  fallen  into  an  almost  unconscious  reverie, 
when  I  was  aroused  bv  the  sio;nal  of  eight  bells, 
struck  for  the  change  of  the  watch.  The  mate, 
coming  on  deck,  directed  me  to  go  below  and  call 
Dan.  This  I  did;  and  leaving  him  and  the  mate 
on  deck  I  went  down  to  my  berth  for  sleep,  but 
most  truly  with  a  heavy  heart.  Before  the  morn 
I  was  aroused  by  the  call  of  all  hands  to  deck.  I 
arose  hastily,  went  above,  and  found  eight  or  ten 
men  at  the  windlass.  It  was  still  pitchy  dark.  I 
was  told  to  heave  with  the  rest.  The  night-air  was 
made  to  ring  with  the  singing  of  the  men,  com- 
mingled with  the  noisy  clanking  of  the  rusty  chain 


150  THE   LIGHT    OP    OTHER   DAYS. 

as  it  came  up  from  the  deep,  dark  see  below.  1 
longed  for  the  daylight,  as  I  had  to  feel  my  way 
around,  and  feared  every  moment  I  should  be  told 
to  do  something  which  I  could  not  do  for  the  dark- 
ness. Where  was  Dan,  I  wondered.  He  is  not  at 
the  windlass,  and  I  have  seen  no  sight  of  him  since 
rising.  Has  he  indeed  made  good  his  threatening 
vow,  and  left  the  ship  under  the  cover  of  the  night  ? 
Am  I  indeed  alone  amid  this  ship's  awful  crew? 
To  me,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  Dan  was  a  com- 
panion to  whom  my  very  heart  went  out,  especially 
since  the  broad  sea  had  received  us  from  the  na- 
tive land. 

But  my  reverie  was  suddenly  interrupted  by  the 
cry  of  the  captain,  in  sharp  German  accents,  to- 
which  the  men  ^responded  with  a  will,  moving 
toward  the  stern  of  the  vessel.  I  tried  to  follow,. 
but  stumbled  over  the  ropes  several  times  before 
reaching  the  rallying  center  of  the  men — the  ves- 
sel's stern.  The  most  of  the  men  were  soon  alofty 
loosening  the  sails,  while  I  was  holding  by  the 
shroud,  fearing  I  should  fall.  The  mate  now  seiz- 
ed me,  and  told  me  to  go  aloft  and  loosen  the  roj'al,. 
the  top- sail  at  the  head  of  the  top-gallant-sail.  I 
knew  full  w^ell  the  dizzy  hight  of  its  position,  and 
yet  I  dared  not  refuse.  Many  of  the  heavy  men 
never  ventured  to  loosen  this  sail.  I  climbed  to 
the  half-moon,  but  about  one  third  of  the  distance,, 


A  HOME   ON   THE   DEEP.  151 

and  feared  to  go  farther.  Here  I  sat  down  and 
began  to  cry,  neither  daring  to  go  forward  or  back 
to  the  deck.  I  heard  the  voice  of  the  captain  call- 
ing repeatedly  for  the  boy ;  but  I  ventured  no  an- 
swer. I  could  hear  the  angry  voices  of  the  men 
about  me,  jabbering  in  German,  with  frequent 
oaths  interspersing  their  words ;  but  for  the  dark- 
ness and  the  dimness  of  my  vision  I  could  descry 
no  man  in  the  rigging.  The  mate  soon  passed  me 
without  the  sign  of  a  recognition;  but,  swearing 
about  the  boy  and  the  royal,  he  wended  his  way 
upward  to  loosen  it  himself.  Once  above  me,  I 
took  advantage  of  his  distance  to  climb  down  again 
upon  the  deck.  The  captain  met  me,  muttering 
something  most  angrily ;  but  in  my  defense  I  told 
him  I  was  sick.  He  w^as  not,  however,  in  a  mood 
to  let  me  off,  but  set  me  to  coiling  rope,  a  work  at 
which,  from  the  darkness,  I  made  but  poor  prog- 
ress. 

Soon,  to  my  relief,  the  gray  light  of  the  morn- 
ing broke  upon  us;  and  a  brisk  breeze,  I  saw,  was 
speedily  carrying  us  seaward.  How  well  I  remem- 
ber the  splashing  of  the  weaves,  and  the  deep  gurg- 
ling of  the  water  as  we  plowed  our  way  through 
the  sea.  Again  I  began  to  wonder  where  Dan  was, 
when  the  captain  and  mate  angrily  approached  me 
and  addressed  the  same  question  to  me,  "  Where 
is  dat  oder  fellow  ?"     "  Below,  I  suppose,"  said  I. 


152  THE   LIGHT   OF   OTHER  DAYS. 

"You  know  where  he  is,"  the  captain  retorted; 
"  what  for  you  lie  ?''*  His  menacing  position  before 
me  made  me  fear  he  would  fell  me  with  a  maddened 
blow.  In  fear,  I  walked  away,  and  the  captain 
followed  me  to  the  forcastle.  He  took  Dan's 
wardrobe  from  his  berth ;  and  after  examining  it 
carefully,  as  if  he  expected  to  find  some  signs  of 
Dan  within  it,  he  carried  it  to  his  own  quarters 
If  he  could  not  have  the  boy,  he  would  make  the 
best  use  of  the  boy's  apparel.  Dan's  flight  and 
the  method  of  his  procedure  were  now  well  un- 
derstood by  all,  and  was  the  topic  of  excited  con- 
versation for  the  day.  Although  I  could  under- 
stand but  little,  I  knew  that  a  spirit  of  boasting 
vengeance  was  being  nursed  against  poor  Dan  ; 
and  in  my  heart  I  was  glad  that  several  hours'  sail 
had  separated  him  and  them  before  his  leave-taking 
had  been  noticed.  It  certainly  was  a  good  thing 
for  him,  as  he  might,  if  caught,  have  tested  the 
virtue  of  hemp  and  the  strength  of  the  yard-arm. 
I  spent  the  day  in  coiling  rope,  sweeping  deck, 
etc.,  as  best  I  could.  Meanwhile  I  wondered  what 
I  had  best  do  to  make  my  situation  as  comfortable 
as  possible.  Should  I  tell  the  captain  the  actual 
condition  of  things,  or  should  I  defer  the  matter 
until  a  more  favorable  opportunity?  But  I  had 
not  suflicient  courage  to  own  the  truth,  and  so  de- 
ferred action  for  the  time.     Night  came  on  again, 


A   HOME   ON   THE   DEEP.  153 

and  I  was  put  upon  the  watch,  as  the  night  before. 
An  excellent  watch,  thought  I — a  poor,  blind  boy, 
who  could  not  descry  a  passing  vessel  if  but  a  ship's 
length  away!  Surely  /  will  do  to  take  down  a 
top-sail-yard,  Captain  Sourbierl  Oh,  that  T  had 
gone  with  lucky  Dan.  By  this  time,  thought  I, 
he  is  looking  about  for  another  ship. 

The  watch-hours  wore  away  without  special  in- 
cident, and  I  passed  down  to  my  berth  for  rest 
again.  With  early  dawn  I  was  called  once  more 
on  deck.  Stretched  around  me  was  a  mag- 
niHcent  expanse  of  blue.  l^To  land  could  be  de- 
scried in  any  direction.  For  the  first  time  I  had 
lost  sight  of  the  solid  earth.  I  was  resting  upon 
the  billowy  bosom  of  the  mighty  deep ;  and  yet  I 
felt  that  with  all  my  sins  I  was  in  the  hollow  ot 
God's  own  hand.  The  vast  ocean  appeared  to  me 
like  one  wonderful  waste  of  water.  Of  what  util- 
ity, thought  I,  is  this  wonderful  waste  to  man  ?  Why 
so  large  a  portion  of  the  globe  but  billowy  water, 
which  no  man  can  cultivate,  and  whereon  men 
can  not  permanently  live?  It  is  not  mere  scenery 
for  the  eye,  for  from  the  shore,  but  its  narrowest 
rim  can  be  taken  into  the  field  of  wondering  vision. 
The  ocean  covers  three  fifths  of  that  globe  which 
God  gave  to  man  for  his  own  home.  How  unnat- 
ural seems  this  division.  How  strange,  at  least  at 
first  thought,  it  had  not  been  reversed.     And  yet 


154  THE    LIGHT   OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

we  must  admit  that  this,  with  all  God's  other 
works,  is  both  right  and  best.  The  ocean  as  it  is, 
is  of  the  greatest  conceivable  importance  to  man, 
and  essential,  it  is  claimed,  to  the  general  grand 
harmony  of  the  laws  of  nature.  It  is  the  grand 
highway  of  all  nations,  built  by  God,  the  Supreme 
Architect,  for  the  commerce  of  the  world.  It  is 
worth  more  than  a  thousand  railroads  running  be- 
tween America  and  Europe  or  Africa,  and  one  over 
which  the  world  may  pass  without  let  or  hinder- 
ance.  The  products  of  the  most  distant  climes 
may  be  borne  upon  its  bosom ;  and  thus  the  distant 
regions  of  the  earth  will  be  made  to  contribute  of 
their  bounties  to  the  common  table  of  a  race.  Coun- 
tries are  widely  separated  from  each  other,  and 
thus  allowed  to  grow  up  in  measurable  independ- 
ence of  each,  and  train  their  peoples  in  their 
mutually  dissimilar  habits  and  methods.  These 
widely  separated  schools  are  doubtless  to  the  gen- 
eral advantage  of  the  nations,  and  but  add  to  the 
intellectual  fruitfulness  of  the  world.  The  ocean, 
too,  is  a  barrier  impassable  to  the  barbarian,  one 
over  which  he  can  not  pass  in  his  frail  canoe,  nor 
at  all,  indeed,  until  he  consents  to  adopt  the  modes 
and  habits  of  civilization.  The  sea,  literally,  con- 
stitutes the  empire  of  civilization,  whatever  may 
be  said  of  some  portions  of  the  earth.  The  bar- 
barian may  scale  the  mountain,  peiietrate  the  for- 


A    HOME    ON   THE   DEEP.  155 

est,  aud  hold  his  own  sway  over  the  vale  and  the 
plain,  hut  the  sea  he  must  relinquish  to  the  stronger 
rule  of  the  civilized  races.  And  old  ocean,  too,  is 
the  great  store-house  of  rain,  where  Nature  distills 
her  genial  drops  that  make  glad  the  earth  and  fruit- 
ful the  held.  For  this  purpose  the  annual  evapo- 
ration of  all  the  oceans  is  supposed  to  equal  a  depth 
of  about  fourteen  feet ;  that  is,  if  the  oceans  did 
not  receive  any  rain  during  the  year,  nor  any 
supply  from  the  rivers  of  the  world,  they  would 
fall  in  depth  fourteen  feet  during  that  time.  The 
moisture  needed  by  the  earth  could  perhaps  be  sup- 
plied with  a  sea-surface  no  less  than  that  we  have. 
And  then  I  thought  of  the  depth  of  these  vast 
waters,  upon  the  bosom  of  which  I  was  sailing 
out  from  my  native  clime  and  home.  As  the 
mountain  tops  are  above  the  valley,  so  are  the  deep 
vales  of  the  sea  below  the  surface  of  the  waters 
thereof.  What  a  wondrous  depth  beneath  me, 
and  how  deep  would  be  my  grave  if  I  should  lie 
down  here  in  death.  LaPlace  estimates  the  av- 
erage depth  of  the  ocean  at  ten  miles,  w^hile  the 
higher  mountains  are  little  more  than  five  miles  in 
elevation.  The  greatest  ascertained  depth  of  the 
Atlantic  is  about  five  miles,  while  the  Pacific  is 
considered  deeper  than  the  Atlantic. 

Soon   after  rising  I  witnessed  the  magnificent 
sunrise  of  the  sea,  a  scene  before  which  the  world 


156  THE   LIGHT    OP   OTHER  DATS. 

with  its  most  fastidious  taste  might  proudly  stand 
entranced.  I  had  never  before  witnessed  anything 
of  such  real  glory.  I  had  seen  the  king  of  day  as 
he  had  come  up  from  the  beautiful  plain,  as  though 
rising  from  his  grave  of  verdure,  and  I  had  seen 
his  smiling  face  rising  maj  estically  above  the  mount- 
ain-top, as  if  like  a  monarch,  to  look  down  from 
the  world's  higher  throne  upon  the  waking  mul- 
titudes of  earth ;  but  such  grandeur  as  a  clear  sun- 
rise at  sea  I  had  never  witnessed  or  imagined.  No 
pen  can  paint  the  scene ;  and  for  once  even  bold 
imagination  finds  herself  baffled  in  the  endeavor. 
It  rose  as  a  smiling  beauty,  and  shone  like  the  face 
of  God,  which  it  sweetly  represented.  "What 
wonder  that  this  king  of  day,  this  source  of  heat 
and  light  and  even  life,  has  been  mistaken  for  God 
himself,  and  worshiped  as  such !  If  ever  I  felt 
like  yielding  reverence  and  bestowing  worship  be- 
fore the  shrine  of  the  sun  it  was  now.  Rising  as 
from  the  deep  blue  sea,  it  seemed  as  if  coming  forth 
from  its  nightly  immersion,  perfectly  cleansed  from 
every  stain,  while  every  ray  appeared  to  offer  proof 
of  its  own  complete  innocence.  From  the  beauti- 
ful glory  left  in  its  wake,  one  would  suppose  with 
Shakespeare  that  it  had  been  "bathing  in  fiery 
floods."  Truly,  for  once  the  Spirit  of  God  seemed 
to  move  upon  the  face  of  the  waters  before  my  own 
eyes.     At  the  very  rising  of  the  sun  millions  of 


A   HOME   ON   THE   DEEP.  157 

briny  drops  abandon  their  mighty  ocean-cradle, 
and,  unseen  to  mortal  eye,  rise  upward  into  the 
upper  blue,  to  form  silvery  clouds  from  which  God 
may  fashion  the  refreshing  shower.  The  very 
waves  seem  newly  mad  with  joy  as  they  dance  and 
flash  in  the  sunlight,  covering  the  sea  with  one 
broad,  golden  luster. 

If  in  the  wide  world  anything  which  I  have  seen 
equals  or  comes  nearly  in  approach  to  the  sunrise 
of  the  sea,  it  is  its  own  opposite  image — the  sun- 
set of  the  sea.  The  description  of  this  I  shall  not 
trust  to  my  own  pen,  but  shall,  with  passing,  breathe 
upon  the  reader  the  words  of  the  poet  in  brief 

"Now  the  sun  laj'  low  in  the  golden  West, 
With  bars  of  purple  across  his  breast. 

"The  skies  were  aflame  with  the  sunset's  glow; 
The  billows  were  all  aflame  below; 

'The  far  horizon  seamed  the  gate 
To  some  mystic  world's  enchanted  state. 

"And  all  the  air  was  a  luminous  mist, 
Crimson,  and  amber,  and  amethyst." 

—Mrs.  Julia  C.  Ji.  Dorr. 

And  again  the  poet  Millard  aids  and  refreshes 
my  thought  with  his  song : 

"I've  seen,  behind  the  ocean  wave, 
The  sun  his  golden  pinions  lave, 
Still  sending  o'er  the  watery  way 
The  milder  beams  of  closing  day; 


158  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER    DAYS. 

The  sky  above,  like  burnished  gold, 
Reflected  on  each  wave  that  rolled, 
While  far  as  eye  could  trace  the  scene 
The  sea  was  clad  in  dazzling  sheen; 
Above,  around,  a  halo  spread, 
Till  glory  mantled  ocean-bed. 

"Bright  scene  of  mild  departing  day, 
I  love  to  while  an  hour  away 
In  gazing  on  thy  fading  light. 
And  watch  the  gath'ring  shades  of  night. 
On  the  ship's  deck  how  oft  I've  stood 
And  eyed  thy  glory  o'er  the  flood, 
Till  faintly  and  more  faintly  glowed 
The  golden  beauties  thou  hadst  strewed ; 
Till  night  its  somber  pall  had  spread, 
And  Luna  shone  in  Phoebus'  stead." 


LIFE   ON   THE   SEA.  '  159 


CHAPTER  XXYII. 

LIFE    ON   THE    SEA. 

For  several  hours  I  was  made  to  work  with  oth- 
ers of  the  crew  at  repairing  the  well-worn  sails. 
The  captain,  meanwhile,  was  closely  eyeing  me 
from  the  wheel,  and  I  was  quite  sure  that  he  was 
by  no  means  pleased  with  the  progress  I  was  mak- 
ing. A  shrill  whistle  caused  me  to  look  toward 
him,  when  he  beckoned  me  to  his  side.  He  told 
me  to  take  the  wheel  and  steer  the  ship.  This,  in 
calm  weather,  was  but  a  pleasant  service;  and 
could  I  have  distinctly  seen,  as  the  work  requir- 
ed, I  should  have  cared  for  nothing  better.  I 
took  the  wheel,  as  I  was  bid,  and  observed  the 
course  I  was  to  follow.  The  compass  was  in  the 
binnacle-box,  but  a  short  dit.tance  from  me,  and 
yet  I  could  so  indistinctly  see  the  points  of  the 
compass  that  I  soon  had  the  ship  aback.  This, 
of  course,  brought  the  captain  to  my  side  in  a  ter- 
rible rage.  "With  an  oath,  he  dragged  me  from 
the  wheel  and  righted  the  ship ;  and  then,  leaving 
me  once  more,  he  charged  me  to  mind  well  my 


160  .  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

business.  Soon,  however,  in  spite  of  my  best  en- 
endeavors,  the  ship  was  thrown  aback  worse  than 
before.  This  time  he  came  fiercely  upon  me,  and 
gave  me  a  blow  the  sting  of  which  I  felt  for  a  long 
time.  He  then  demanded  to  know,  and  quite  rea- 
sonably, too,  why  I  did  not  keep  her  on  her  right 
course.  I  now^  confessed  to  him  the  fact  that  I 
could  not  see.  Again,  with  an.  oath,  he  struck 
me,  asking  why,  then,  I  had  come  aboard  his  ship. 
The  captain  was  brutal ;  but  it  is  the  part  of  hon- 
or in  me  to  confess  that  he  had  some  show  of  rea- 
son for  his  brutality.  He,  in  good  faith,  had  hired 
me  for  a  special  service,  and  I  had  given  him  am- 
ple assurance  that  I  was  able  to  perform  all  he 
should  ask.  I  had  sought  to  dupe  him,  but  had 
to  a  worse  extent  foolishly  duped  myself,  to  please 
Mr.  Clark,  the  Boston  villain,  into  whose  hands  I 
had  fallen.  But  God,  perhaps,  was  punishing  me 
in  part  for  my  guilty  conduct  toward  parents  w^hose 
hearts  had  ever  shown  me  purest  love.  Did  I  suf- 
fer much,  it  was  only  less  than  I  righteously  de- 
served ;  and  possibly  this  mode  of  punishment  was 
God's  method  for  the  correction  of  my  life. 

Another  was  now  called  to  the  wheel,  and  the 
captain  put  me  on  other  duty.  Days  now  passed 
with  unvarying  monotony,  but  bringing  to  my 
broken  and  disconsolate  soul  daily  reproofs,  kicks, 
and  curses  from  the  mate  and  captain,  and  frequent 


LIFE    ON    THE    SEA.  161 

stingiug  insults  from  the  men.  My  inexperience 
made  me  the  butt  of  ridicule  with  them,  which 
they  were  less  willing  to  excuse  from  my  former 
professions  of  knowledge  in  the  sea-going  line.^ 
They  often  treated  me  with  derision  and  contempt, 
the  old  German  cook,  in  whom  I  had  hoped  to 
find  a  friend,  freely  joining  with  the  rest.  Cloudy, 
weather  and  a  brisk  sea  soon  made  the  ocean  rough, 
and  I  began  to  feel,  for  the  first  time,  sensations  of 
nausea.  Coming  upon  the  deck,  I  was  greeted 
with  a  cloud  of  spray  which  wet  me  to  the  skin. 
It  was  blowing  a  stifl"  breeze,  and  I  was  unable  to 
keep  ni}'  feet,  much  to  the  merriment  of  the  sail- 
ors. In  essaying  to  go  to  the  after-part  of  the 
deck  I  sought  to  make  the  distance  before  the 
ship  sljould  lurch  again,  atid  therefore  ran.  But 
this  special  endeavor  was  all  against  me.  My 
haste,  combined  with  the  lurching  of  the  vessel, 
threw  me  repeatedly  to  the  opposite  side  of  the 
ship,  and  entirely  out  of  my  line  of  direction.  This 
eftbrt  on  my  part  occasioned  loud  bursts  of  laughter 
from  the  men.  The  violent  agitation,  also,  soon, 
told  severely  on  me,  and  I  speedily  began  to  ex- 
perience the  horrors  of  sea-sickness.  I  had  fain 
hoped  that  I  had  passed  beyond  the  danger  of  this- 
species  of  miserable  suiiering.  It  came,  however, 
at  last,  and  I  was  to  know  it  in  its  worst  and  most 

terrible  form. 
11 


162  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

Of  some  of  the  crew  I  asked  a  remedy  for  my 
trouble,  but  they  only  answered  me  with  their  de- 
risive laughter.  I  had  somewhere  read  or  heard 
that  salt-water  was  a  remedy  for  the  disease,  and 
so  I  drank  plentifully  of  it,  hoping  thereby  to  ob- 
tain relief.  This,  of  course,  but  added  to  my 
trouble  and  distress.  The  old  cook  had  been,  he 
had  told  me,  a  sailor  from  a  boy.  Surely  he  would 
know  what  to  do  for  my  relief,  and  in  such  an 
hour  would  show  me  pity.  I  staggered  toward 
the  galley.  "  Vat  you  vant,"  he  said,  as  I  came 
in  the  door.  "  I  am  sick,"  said  I ;  "  dreadfully  sick. 
Can  you  not  give  me  something  for  my  relief?" 
"I  gives  you  some.ling  vnt  makes  you  right  avay 
petter.  Yon  like  some  dinner?  Ye  got  peans  for 
dinner."  The  thought  of  diiiuer  but  disgusted 
me,  of  course.  He  left  the  galley,  as  I  supposed, 
for  the  purpose  cf  getting  somethijig  for  my  relief. 
He  soon  returned,  followed  by  the  loud  shouts  of 
the  men  and  their  now  torturing  presence.  Hop- 
ing he  brought  relief,  I  quickly  answered  to  his 
call  to  come  forth  from  the  galley.  He  bid  me 
open  my  mouth,  and  presented  to  me  a  piece  of 
fat  pork  tied  by  a  long  string,  which  he  held. 
This  he  wished  me  to  swallow.  Loud  laughter 
from  the  surrounding  crowd  was  the  reward  of 
his  ungenerous  proposition.  This  was  m.ore  than 
I  could  bear  and  I  burst  into   tears   and  gladly 


LIFE    ON   THE   SEA.  163 

■went  from  their  presence.  At  the  dinner  one  of 
the  crew  who  professed  some  measure  of  friend- 
ship induced  me  to  eat  of  bean-soup.  This  1  did, 
in  my  hunger,  hoping  for  some  relief;  but  it  only 
made  me  worse  than  ever. 

Finally  the  wind  subsided,  the  weather  modified, 
the  sea  became  quite  calm,  and  I  began  to  recover 
from  my  horrible  sickness.  I  had  experienced  in 
this  sickness  what  many  have  tried  but  none  have 
ever  been  able  to  describe.  The  very  agonies  of 
death  could  hardly  be  worse;  and  yet  with  all  its 
horrors  the  sickness  is  seldom,  if  ever,  fatal.  Per- 
haps there  is  no  actual  preventive  known,  and  no 
cure  when  once  its  agonies  are  upon  one.  Pre- 
cautious can  be  taken,  however,  which  will  lessen 
its  fury,  and  conditions  observed  which  will  ease 
the  patient.  Lord  Byron  quotes  his  friend  Dr. 
Granville  as  saying  that  tlie  true  way  to  escape  the 
malady  is  to  take,  on  starting,  forty-five  drops  of 
laudanum,  and  further  doses  as  often  afterward  as 
uneasiness  occurs.  In  his  Don  Juan  he  gives  a 
<?0fiiical  description  of  the  disease;  but  it  is  not 
suited  to  these  pages.  The  conduct  of  tlie  crew 
toward  me  wholly  quenched  any  fire  of  love  or  re- 
spect that  may  have  glowed  upon  the  altar  of  my 
heart  for  them.  I  determined  never  again  to  trouble 
them  with  my  wants,  or  even  ask  of  them  a  favor. 

My  appetite  was  now^  voracious ;  but  the  fresh 


16-4  THE   LIGHT    OF    OTHER   I  ATS. 

provisions  of  the  ship  were  wliolly  exhausted,  and 
I  began  to  realize  that  on  board  a  German  ship 
there  was  little  good  eating,  as  the  old  cook  had 
forewarned  me.  Wormy  sea-biscuit,  meat  unfit  ta 
eat,  beans,  and  corn-coftee  innocent  of  sugar,  made 
up  the  round  of  our  daily  diet.  For  such  stuft'  I 
had  little  relish  ;  and  yet  I  must  eat  of  this  or  starve. 
The  captain,  meantime,  fared  better  and  well 
enough.  The  steward  prepared  for  him  his  daily 
ham  and  eggs,  with  pure  coffee,  sugar,  and  other 
luxuries.  Even  his  Newfoundland  dog  was  fur- 
nished with  a  plate  an-d  his  slice  of  ham.  Several 
sheep  had  been  put  aboard  for  his  supply ;  and  eggs 
were  furnished  by  a  brood  of  fine  fowl.  By  close 
watching  I  obtained  occasionally  a  fresh  egg,  which 
I  relished  better  than  he  did  his  daily,  dainty  wine; 
and  then  a  few  times  I  managed  to  get  the  leavings 
of  his  own  meals,  intercepting  what  was  intended 
for  the  Newfoundland's  plate,  from  the  kitchen. 

On  board  our  vessel  were  three  passengers,  ta 
whose  presence,  it  is  highly  probable,  I  owe  even  life 
itself.  The  bitterness  of  my  cup  was  more  than 
once  sweetened  by  kindly  looks  and  genial  words. 
These  passengers  consisted  of  a  boy  from  Massa- 
chusetts, visiting  an  uncle  in  South  America,  an 
invalid  gentleman  voyaging  simply  for  health,  and, 
chief  to  me,  a  Mr.  Watson,  a  merchant  of  New 
York.     He  was  a  well-proportioned,  fine-looking 


LIFE    ON    THE    SEA.  165 

man,  of  much  polish  and  very  genial  spirit.     He 
showed  me  a  special  friendship,  for  which  I  would 
record  my  obligation  with  tears  of  grateful  love 
and  recollection.     As  a  rule,  passengers  were  not 
allowed  the  privilege  of  conversation  with  the  crew ; 
but  it  so  happened  that  I  got  many  opportunities 
therefor  with  Mr.  Watson.     From  the  first  I  no- 
ticed that  he  kindly  watched  me  in  my  harsh  treat- 
ment; and  I  knew  that  I  could   not  mistake  the 
pity  of  his  eye.     The  passengers  spent  their  time 
in  taking  observations,  fishing,  and  gathering  curi- 
osities of  general  interest.     Mr-.  Watson  took  his 
daily  bath,  in  a  large  tub  in  the  forepart  of  the  ves- 
sel ;  and  this  I  daily  filled  for  the  bather,  and  also 
waited  upon  him  at  suah  times  as  desired.     Thus 
I  had  frequent  interviews  with  him.     He  kindly 
inquired  into  my  family  and  general  history,  which 
I  gladly  gave  him,  with  special  particularity.     As 
time  drew  on  my  respect  ripened  into  love  for  the 
g-entleman,  and  I  knew  I  could  count  with  certain- 
ty  on  his  friendship.     I  took  great  comfort  in  the 
thought  that  I  had  the  kindly  love  of  one  being 
on  board  the  vessel.     Yet  there  was  much  in  store 
for  me  in  the  way  of  wrathful  treatment. 

One  day  the  captain  was  ordering  the  men  to  do 
many  things  which  I  thought,  under  the  circum- 
stances, entirely  unnecessary.  Everything  loose 
about  the  vessel  was  being  well  secured.     The  ex- 


166  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DATS. 

tra  spare  were  made  doubly  sure  in  their  places, 
the  top -sails  were  double  reefed,  and  the  royal  that 
I  had  been  expected  to  take  down  was  loosened  by 
another  hand.  The  captain's  eye  was  anxiou^;'y 
and  steadily  fixed  upon  the  sky.  I  soon  learned 
that  I  was  to  have  a  new  experience,  one  which,, 
luckily,  I  had  so  far  been  spared.  A  storm  was 
approaching;  and  the  signs  thereof  were  numer- 
ous, and  had  not  escaped  the  vigilant  eye  of  Cap- 
tain Sourbier.  The  portents  of  this  gathering 
storm  did  not  appear  to  me  as  they  would  not  to- 
any  unpracticed  eye.  The  breeze  began  to  freshen; 
and  the  white  crest  upon  the  blue-tongued  waves- 
was  doubly  grand  and  surpassingly  beautiful  to 
the  curious  eye. 

Speaking  of  a  white  squall,  Wjp..  Makepiece 
Thackery  thus  poetizes : 

"In  our  jovial,  floating  prison 
There  was  sleep  from  fore  to  mizzen, 
And  never  a  star  had  risen 
The  hazy  sk}'  to  speck. 
Strange  company  we  harbored  ; 
We'd  a  hundred  Jews  to  larbo:ird. 
Unwashed,  uncombed,  unbarliered-^ 
Jews  black  and  brown  and  gray. 

And  so  the  hours  kept  tolling. 
And  through  the  ocean  rolling 
Went  the  brave  Iberia,  bowling, 
Before  the  break  of  day. 


LIFE    ON    THE    SEA.  1-67 

''When  a  squall,  upon  a  sudden, 
Came  o'er  the  waters  scudding; 
And  the  clouds  began  to  gather. 
And  the  sea  was  lashed  to  lather, 
And  the  lowering  thunder  grumbled, 
And  the  lightning  jumped  and  tumbled; 
And  the  ship  and  all  the  ocean 
Woke  up  in  wild  commotion; 
And  the  cordage  and  the  tackle 
Began  to  shriek  and  crackle ; 
And  the  spray  dashed  o'er  the  funnels, 
And  down  the  deck,  in  runnels, 
While  the  passengers  awaken, 
Most  pityfully  shaken." 

R.  Brown  also  thus  describes  a  storm  on  Galli- 
lee: 

"  Our  bark  was  riding  merrily, 

A  speck  upon  that  summer  sea; 
But  deep  and  hollow  murmurs  came, 

That  heralded  the  tempest  waking, 
The  gathering  cloud  and  flickering  flame, 

And  thunders  in  the  distance  breaking; 
The  storm's  first  drops  and  fitful  freeze, 

That  curled  the  bosom  of  the  seas. 

"And  wild  and  high  the  billows  rose, 

Fearful  in  strength  and  proudly  foaming, 
Starting  like  maniacs  from  repose, 

Or  dark  and  heartless  plunderers,  roaming. 

But  the  poet-pen  must  fail  to  bring  up  the  awful 
beauty  and  fury  of  the  storm  at  sea  to  the  eye  of 
iny  reader.  Once  beheld,  however,  the  scene  re- 
mains forever  photographed  within  the  deep  cham 


168  THE   LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DATS. 

bers  of  the  soul.  To  witness  its  fury  and  feel  its 
power,  one  may  not  stand  a  spectator  upon  the 
sheltered  bank  or  commanding  mountain ;  but  he 
must  be  amid  its  roar  and  flash  and  horrid  whirl. 
A  brave  heart  must  beat  in  that  bosom  which  can 
behold  the  scene  unmoved,  and  a  heart  of  cold  in- 
difference that  before  such  awful  power  will  refuse 
to  submit  and  soften  into  tenderness. 

The  flj'ing-fish  presented  a  magnificent  sight 
preceding  the  rising  storm.  This  fish  is  a  tine  spec- 
imen of  the  fruitful  and  varied  life  of  the  sea.  It 
has  a  scaly  head.  Its  mouth  is  without  teeth,  and 
its  jaws  are  connected  on  each  side.  It  is  about 
fourteen  inches  in  length,  while  its  pectoral  fins, 
which  serve  it  as  wings,  are  of  great  strength,  and 
about  three  fourths  the  length  of  its  body.  It  will 
often  quit  the  water,  rising  about  three  feet,  and 
fly  a  distance  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  to  three 
hundred  feet.  It  is  then  obliged  to  drop  into  the 
water  again  to  moisten  its  tins,  which  in  its  prog- 
ress become  both  dry  and  hard.  This  tish  is  the 
prey  of  the  dorado  under  the  water,  and  above 
it  is  pursued  by  the  gull  or  albatross ;  and  often, 
too,  in  escaping  the  one  it  is  destroyed  by  the  oth- 
er. Its  air-bladder  is  extremely  large,"  and  this 
greatly  assists  it  in  its  aerial  progress.  Sometimes, 
as  the  vessel  dips  toward  the  sea,  they  attempt,  if 
possible,  to  fly  across  the  ship,  and  in  great  num- 


LIFE   ON   THE   SEA.  160 

bers  drop  upon  the  deck,  where  they  flounder  un- 
til returned  again  to  the  sea  by  the  crew.  Tliey 
are  undesirable  for  food,  and  hence  their  presence 
on  deck  is  attended  with  no  profit  to  the  sailor. 

A  school  of  dolphins  sporting  about  a  vessel  is  a 
sight  not  altogether  devoid  of  interest,  while  also 
a  school  of  porpoises  receives  more  than  a  pass- 
ing notice.  The  dolphin  is  unusually  playful 
before  boisterous  weather;  aud  in  his  uncouth 
gambols  he  seems  happy  that  the  storm  is  coming 
on.  His  measurement  reaches  occasionally  a  length 
of  ten  feet.  He  pursues  and  attacks  small  tish, 
but  has  also  no  fear  of  the  whale.  They  have  been 
seen  firmly  adhering  to  whales  as  those  monsters 
have  jumped  out  of  the  sea.  The  ancients  possessed 
for  this  animal  a  wonderful  and  superstitious  at- 
tachment; and  illustrative  of  its  affection  they 
have  recorded  numerous  anecdotes.  They  claimed 
it  to  have  a  rapturous  fondness  for  music  also ;  but 
their  descriptions  are  more  fanciful  than  correct. 

The  porpoise  is  smaller  than  the  dolphin,  being 
about  six  feet  in  length.  It  obtains  its  prey  by 
swimming,  and  also,  in  shallow  water,  by  root- 
ing in  the  mud  aud  sand  like  a  hog.  For  this 
reason  they  are  sometimes  called  by  sailors  sea- 
hogs.  They  were  once  regarded  as  great  deli- 
cacies for  the  table,  and  were  served  to  nobles,  and 
even  kings ;  but  now,  as  food  they  are  wholly  die- 


170  THE    LIGHT    OF    tTHER    DAYS. 

carded.  They  will  often  jump  from  the  water  and 
dive  again,  head-foremost,  splashing  the  sea  with 
their  tails.  Their  presence  serves  to  break  the 
monotony  of  the  sea ;  and  in  their  sports  they  are 
not  altogether  unattractive. 

My  condition  was  now  pretty  generally  under- 
stood by  both  the  captain  and  the  crew ;  and  it 
gave  me  special  relief  in  the  direction  of  duty,  I 
being  called  on  usually  to  do  only  what  I  was  in 
my  condition  well  qualified  for.  The  spirit  of  the 
men  toward  me  was  also  materially  changed.  Not 
now  essaying  to  do  what  I  could  not  do,  I  was  no 
longer  subject  to  their  jeering  and  ridicule.  To 
some  degree  they  showed  me  kindness  and  pity, 
for  which  expressions  1  began  to  entertain  feelings 
of  tender  regard  and  cordial  respect.  My  duties 
were  now  wholly  of  the  day,  and  consisted  of  rope- 
coiling,  deck-sweeping,  tarring  yarn  for  sail-mend- 
ing, whipping  the  ropes  to  prevent  their  raveling, 
and  other  light  and  generally  pleasant  duties. 

For  several  days  a  very  large,  strange-looking 
monster  had  been  following  and  swimming  close 
by  our  ship,  the  nature  of  which  was  unknown  to 
our  crew;  and  the  captain,  even,  declared  that  he 
had  never  seen  anything  resembling  it.  It  was  dark, 
and  spotted;  and  about  six  feet  of  its  body  we  could 
see  almost  constantly  above  the  water.  The  cap- 
tain tiiuilly  determined  to  secure  it,  and  for  this 


LIFE    ON    THE    SEA.  171 

purpose  about  seventy-five  fathoms  of  rope  were 
coiled  for  use.  The  captain,  descending  over  the 
starboard,  struck  the  harpoon  into  the  monster^ 
when  it  instantly  darted  seaward  with  lightning 
speed.  Unfortunately  the  steward,  in  crossing  the 
ship,  became  entangled  in  the  ropes  and  was  drag- 
ged by  the  leg  several  feet.  He  would  certainly 
have  been  hauled  overboard  had  not  the  carpen- 
ter, who  happened  to  stand  near  with  hatchet  in 
hand,  severed  the  rope  with  a  well-directed  blow. 
By  this  means  we  lost  our  strange  fish ;  but  we 
all  felt  that  with  the  loss  a  terrible  fatality  had 
been  prevented.  As  it  was,  the  leg  of  the  steward 
was  severel}'  bruised ;  and  for  several  days  he  could 
hobble  about  only  with  difiiculty. 

And  now  ensued  what  sailors  dread  even  more 
than  the  storm —  a  deep,  monotonous  calm.  To 
the  steamer  it  is  no  objection  in  ocean-life,  but  a 
very  special  advantage.  To  a  sailing-ship,  how- 
ever, whose  only  dependence  is  its  sails,  and  there- 
with the  driving  winds  of  heaven,  a  calm  is  dread- 
ed beyond  possible  expression.  The  weather-vane 
on  the  ship's  quarter  at  such  times  is  motionless  j 
and  a  more  delicate  test  sometimes  resorted  to  by 
sailors  to  detect  the  least  breath  of  sea-breeze, 
namely,  that  of  casting  a  coal  of  fire  into  the  sea, 
will  often  result  in  simpl}^  a  perpendicular  ascen- 
sion of  steam  into  the  motionless  air.     Sometimes 


172  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

for  weeks  tlie  ship  will  lie  without  making  any 
progress,  and  meantime  the  sailors  become  exceed- 
ingly nervous  and  anxious.  The  least  increased 
motion  of  the  sea  is  hailed  with  delis-ht  as  the 
hoped  harbinger  of  the  coming  breeze.  "  The  rays 
of  the  sun  are  burning  rays,  while  the  deck  be- 
comes hot  to  the  feet ;  the  melting  pitch  boils  up 
from  the  seams,  tar  drops  continually  from  the 
rigging,  the  masts  and  booms  display  gaping  cracks, 
the  flukes  of  the  anchors  are  too  hot  to  touch  with 
impunity,"  while  no  cloud  shelters  from  the  fierce 
and  fiery  heat  of  the  king  of  day. 

Coleridge,  in  his  "  Ancient  Mariner,"  thus  briefly 
describes  the  condition  of  the  sea  during  a  calm: 

"The  sun  came  up  upon  the  left, 
Out  of  the  sea  came  he ; 
And  he  shone  bright,  and  on  the  right 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 

"  Down  dn)]>ped  the  breeze,  the  sails  dropped  down, 
'Twas  sad  as  sad  could  be  ; 
And  we- did  not  speak,  oul}-  to  break 
The  silence  of  the  sea. 

"Day  after  day,  day  at'ter  day 

We  stuck ;  nor  breath,  nor  motion  ; 
As  idle  as  a  painted  ship 
Upon  a  painted  ocean." 

M.  Scheie  De  Vere,  author  of  "  Stray  Leaves 
from  the  Book  of  Nature,"  thus  discourses  on  the 
*'calm  at  sea:" 


LIFE    ON   THE   SEA.  173 

"  Only  when  the  wind  is  lulled  and  a  calm  has 
(<oothed  the  angry  waves  can  the  ocean  be  seen  in 
its  quiet  majesty.  But  the  aspect  is  apt  to  be 
dreary  and  lonel}^,  whether  we  see  the  dark  waves 
3f  tlie  sea  draw  lazily  in  and  out  of  rocky  clitis, 
3r  watch  wearily  the  sea's  perpetual  swing,  the 
melancholy  wash  of  the  endless  waves.  Away 
from  the  land,  there  is  nothing  so  full  of  awe  and 
horror  as  a  perfectly  calm  sea.  Man  is  spell-bound ; 
a  magic  charm  seems  to  chain  him  to  the  glassy 
and  transparent  waters ;  he  can  not  move  from  the 
fatal  spot,  and  death,  slow,  fearful,  certain  death^ 
stares  him  in  the  face.  He  trembles  as  his  despair- 
ing gaze  meets  the  upturned,  leaden  eye  of  the 
shark,  patiently  waiting  for  him ;  as  he  hears  far 
below  the  sigh  of  some  grim  monster,  slowly  shift- 
ing on  his  uneasy  pillow  of  brine.  Fancy  knows 
but  one  picture  more  dreadful  yet  than  tempest, 
shipwreck,  or  the  burning  of  a  vessel  out  at  sea ; 
it  is  a  ship  on  the  great  ocean  in  a  calm,  with  no 
hope  for  a  breeze.  On  the  same  sunshine,  on  the 
same  waves,  the  poor  mariners  gaze  day  by  day 
with  languid  eye,  even  until  the  heart  is  sick  and 
the  body  perishes." 

Of  course,  here  we  have  a  description  of  an  ex- 
tended and  fatal  calm.  The  calm  with  us  lasted 
some  days,  perhaps  less  than  a  week,  when  our 
hearts  were  made  glad  again  by  the  rising  breeze 
and  the  slow  moving  of  our  goodly  ship. 


174  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER    DAYS. 


CHAl'TER  XXVII. 

OVER  THE  LINE  AND  INTO  PORT. 

We  were  now  approaching  the  line,  as  the 
sailors  pleased  to  call  the  equator.  This  is  an  im- 
aginary line,  belting  the  globe  east  and  west,  at  a 
point  equidistant  from  the  north  and  south  poles. 
At  this  line  the  inhabitants  have  days  and  nights 
of  equal  length  the  year  around.  The  city  of 
Quito,  Ecuador,  and  the  mouth  of  the  river  Ama- 
zon, in  Brazil,  are  on  the  west  and  east  ends  of 
this  line  respectively,  in  South  America,  or  at  a 
point  equally  distant  from  the  northern  and  south- 
ern poles.  Among  the  sailors  there  was  much 
talk  of  the  line;  and  I  half  imagined  tliat  when 
I  came  to  it,  it  would  be  visible  to  the  eye.  I  was 
.actually  and  yet  half  unconsciously  on  the  watch 
for  it.  The  tropical  rains  were  almost  constant, 
which  made  this  part  of  our  ocean-life  exceedingly 
■disagreeable;  and  yet  the  heat  was  so  intense  that 
we  gladly  consented  to  this  heavy  veiling  of  tlie 
fiun  and  this  constant  weeping  of  nature.     With  a 


OVER  THE  LINE  AND  INTO  PORT.       175 

clear  sky  we  could,  seemingly,  have  hardly  en- 
dured the  scalding  heat  of  the  day. 

One  evening  the  mate  called  me  to  the  wheel, 
and  directed  me  to  steer  the  ship.  This  was  now 
a  work  very  rare,  and  I  reluctantly  took  the  wheel; 
but  the  mate  said  he  would  be  absent  only  a  mo- 
ment, and  would  keep  an  eye  on  the  vessel.  He 
soon  returned,  and  for  an  hour,  until  the  shades  of 
evening  ])egan  to  deepen,  we  were  engaged  in 
pleasant  conversation.  Neptune  and  the  line  had 
well-nigh  been  forgotten  by  me,  and  1  supposed 
we  were  passed  over  and  done  with  them.  The 
carpenter,  I  noticed,  was  Ijusily  engaged  in  unrav- 
elling rope  and  working  upon  canvas  in  a  manner 
entirely  strange,  and  wliich  greatly  puzzled  me. 
While  I  was  wondering  what  his  strange  motions 
could  mean,  and  what  interest  his  work  could  an- 
swer, I  was  startled  by  a  sepulchral  voice  from  the 
forepart  of  the  ship,  crying  out,  "Ship,  ahoy! 
What  vessel  is  this ?  Where  is  she  bound?"  and 
numerous  other  questions,  to  which  the  mate,  stand- 
ing by  me,  responded  pleasantly,  and  with  no  ex- 
hibition of  emotion.  Duringthe  time,  1  was  peer- 
ing into  the  darkness  seaward,  hoping  to  descry 
some  vessel,  whence  I  supposed  the  voice  to 
proceed,  and  which  I  concluded  was  very  near  us. 
*'  What  vessel  does  the  man  speak  from?"  I  inquir- 
ed of  the  mate.     "  It  is  Neptune  that  is  speaking 


176  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

to  US,  said  lie."  This  character  now  climbed  over 
the  bows  of  the  vessel  as  if  comino^  up  out  of  the 
sea,  and  stood  upon  the  forecastle  of  the  ship.  He 
was  bellowing  unceasingly,  and  in  a  jargon  of 
sounds  almost  unintelligible  to  me.  The  mate  at 
the  wheel  was  now  relieved,  and  went  toward  the 
forecastle,  directing  me  to  follow  him.  Neptune, 
as  we  advanced,  came  down  from  the  deck  and  ap- 
proached us,  the  mate  giving  me  an  introduction 
to  him  as  he  came  up.  He  had  on  his  head  some- 
thing similar  to  a  dunce-cap  of  immense  propor- 
tions. He  wore  a  long  beard  of  manilla  rope,  and 
his  hair,  which  was  of  the  same  material,  reached 
down  to  his  shoulders.  He  wore  a  large  tunic, 
which  covered  him  to  his  ankles;  and  this  was  se- 
cured by  a  huge  belt  about  him,  which  contained 
a  ponderous  wooden  knife,  some  two  feet  in  length. 
In  one  hand  he  carried  a  large  haipoon  partly  cov- 
ered with  canvas,  and  in  the  other  a  large  bucket 
containing  a  mixture  of  tar,  soap,  and  water,  very 
thick.  Neptune  then  asked  me  about  my  sea-life. 
He  said  it  was  his  business  to  look  up  green  sea- 
men who  had  never  crossed  the  line,  and  among 
the  rest  it  was  his  duty  to  shave  them.  I  naturally 
and  with  horror  now  cast  my  eyes  down  into  the 
thick  black  lather  of  his  bucket;  but  in  an  instant 
he  roughly  grabbed  me,  pulled  off  my  hat,  and 
seated  me  upon  a  large  wooden  pail.     I  could  not 


OVER  THE  LINE  AND  INTO  PORT.       177 

see  any  of  the  crew,  save  the  mate  at  my  side; 
but  from  tbe  constant  tittering  that  proceeded  from 
the  rigging  I  could  both  locate  them  and  under- 
stand that  they  were  hugely  enjoying  the  proceed- 
ings of  the  occasion.  He  now  began  to  apply  the 
lather  to  my  face  with  a  huge  brush  made  of  ma- 
nilla  rope.  His  bellowing  never  ceased  for  a  mo- 
ment. He  covered  my  face  and  my  head  with  the 
disgusting  lather,  and  then,  pulling  his  huge  knife 
from  his  belt,  he  began  to  shave  me  with  both  his 
hands.  This  through  with,  I  hoped  the  worst  was 
over,  and  for  a  moment  began  to  congratulate 
myself  that  I  had  finallj^  passed  the  fiery  ordeal. 
But  jSTeptune  did  not  propose  to  dismiss  me  with- 
out his  benediction ;  so  raising  both  hands  and 
looking  upward,  as  if  for  the  blessing  of  the  gods, 
he  gave  the  wished-for  signal,  and  instantly  I  was 
drenched,  and  almost  drowned  indeed,  by  a  falling 
shower  of  sea-water.  The  crew  had  climbed  to 
the  yard-arm,  under  which  I  sat  for  my  shaving, 
each  armed  with  a  bucket  of  water;  and  at  the 
signal  of  N"eptune  they  all  dashed  it  upon  me,  amid 
loud  bursts  and  roars  of  laughter  ffom  all  sides. 
Old  ITeptune  now  told  me  that  henceforth  I  could 
sail  the  seas  without  molestation  from  him. 

The  passengers  had  been  aroused  by  the  con- 
fusion and  came  on  deck  to  witness  the  demon- 
stration, but  were  prohibited  from  going  forward 

12 


178  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER    DAYS. 

until  tne  ordeal  was  passed  with  me.  The  boy 
was  now  served  in  the  same  manner  as  I  had 
been,  when  Mr.  Watson  had  also  to  accept  the 
attentions  of  Xeptune.  The  invalid  passenger, 
after  numerous  protestations,  finally  bought  him- 
self off  with  a  dozen  bottles  of  wine.  To  these 
the  captain  added  another  dozen,  and  the  crew 
spent  the  night   in  a   crazy  carousal. 

The  next  day  they  were  not  possessed  of  the 
happiest  feelings.  fhe  mate  was  engaged  in 
painting  the  bulwarks,  when,  on  the  approach 
of  the  steward,  he  began  to  find  fault  about  the 
dinner.  For  some  time  words  were  exchanged 
in  angry  tone,  when,  finally,  the  mate  picked  up 
a  handspike  and  struck  the  steward  a  fearful 
blow  over  the  head.  This  blow  felled  the  steward 
to  the  deck,  and  the  mate,  not  yet  satisfied,  rush- 
ed upon  him  with  his  drawn  knife,  determined  to 
end  the  life  of  his  foe.  The  carpenter,  who  had 
once  been  mate,  and  had  a  special  feeling  against 
the  present  incumbent,  now  came  to  the  rescue  of 
the  steward.  The  fight  now  became,  for  a  few 
moments,  general,  until  the  captain,  aroused  to  a 
sense  of  the  situation,  rushed  on  decK,  and,  revolv- 
er in  hand,  succeeded  in  quelling  the  disturbance 
and  restoring  order  for  the  time.  The  men  reluc- 
tantly dispersed  to  their  several  duties.  During  the 
day  they  kept  up  among  themselves  an  undertone 


OVER  THE  LINE  AND  INTO  PORT.      179 

'svrangling,  and  determined,  before  the  day  should 
pass,  that  they  would  throw  the  mate  into  the  sea. 
The  propitious  time  was  watched  for,  and  before 
night,  on  the  captain  going  below,  the  steward 
attacked  the  mate,  which  was  the  signal  for  the 
entire  crew  to  join  in  the  fight  against  him. 
Several  times  they  tried  in  vain  to  throw  him  over 
the  bulwarks.  They  at  last  dealt  him  a  severe 
blow,  and  were  in  the  act  of  giving  him  to 
the  sea,  when  the  captain  appeared  on  deck  and 
threatened  to  shoot  any  and  every  one  who  at- 
tempted it.  To  my  great  surprise  he  again  quell- 
ed the  mutiny,  and  saved  the  life  of  the  mate. 
Had  they  thrown  the  man  overboard  he  must 
liave  perished,  as  the  vessel  was  going  at  a  high 
rate  of  speed.  This  was  the  last  of  the  mutinous 
spirit,  the  balance  of  our  voyage  being  tranquil 
in  this  respect. 

We  were  now  nearing  our  destination,  and 
occasionally  we  would  see  a  vessel.  During  the 
entire  voyage,  however,  up  to  our  nearing  the 
port  of  Rio  Janeiro,  we  had  sighted  but  four 
T'essels.  Of  these  we  spoke  two,  the  sails  of  the 
others  only  being  descried.  Of  the  two  we  spoke, 
one  was  a  foreign  vessel  and  one  was  an  American. 
This  speaking  a  vessel  is  done,  when  near  by,  by 
means  of  the  trumpet,  a  few  general  questions 
being  asked  and  answered,  concerning  the  vessel's 


180  THE   LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

name,  destination,  nativity,  cargo,  health,  etc. 
When  ships  are  more  widely  separated,  signals 
are  used  in  an  ingenious  way,  by  means  of  which 
all  these  general  questions  are  covered.  The  sight 
of  a  ship  at  sea,  where  the  voyage,  like  our  own, 
is  long,  is  exceedingly  refreshing.  All  hands 
come  on  deck,  and  the  moving  sails  are  watched 
for  hours  with  the  utmost  interest  and  anxiety. 
The  depredations  of  the  Alabama  during  this 
time  made  the  appearance  of  American  vessels 
much  more  of  a  rarity  than  usual.  In  ordinary 
times,  on  the  voyage,  we  would  have  seen  many 
vessels. 

No  opportunity  offered  for  sending  mail  home- 
ward, and  as  the  letter  written  from  Boston  w^as 
not  mailed  by  Mr.  Clark,  or,  if  so,  never  reached 
its  destination,  my  parents  were  in  perfect  igno- 
rance of  my  whereabouts  since  I  parted  with  my 
father  in  Philadelphia.  I  would  gladly  have  avail- 
ed myself  of  a  chance  to  inform  them  of  my  pres- 
ent surroundings;  but  no  such  opportunity  was  pre- 
sented. Neither  could  I  hear  from  home.  Wheth- 
er sick  or  well,  dead  or  alive,  I  knew  not.  Of  one 
thing  I  was  certain,  that  with  all  my  wickedness 
my  mother's  heart  was  still  warm  with  love  for  her 
wayward  son,  and  that  daily  her  prayers  would  go 
up  to  God,  who  only  knew  where  that  son  could 
be. 


OVER  THE  LINE  AND  INTO  PORT.      181 

During  the  entire  trip  I  saw  no  land  myself, 
although  the  captain  reported  that  several  islands 
were  sighted  by  his  glass,  and  that  once,  when  by 
head-winds  we  were  driven  much  out  of  our  way, 
he  sighted  as  he  thought  the  coast  of  Africa.  But 
now  we  were  neariug  Rio  Janeiro,  and  hugging 
the  coast  more  closely  each  day.  The  towns 
along  the  coast  were  numerous,  and  some  of  them 
appeared  very  beautiful.  ITever  before  did  the 
solid  earth  appear  more  lovely  or  more  desirable 
to  me.  It  was  toward  evenins;  when  we  came  near 
to  the  harbor  of  Rio  Janeiro.  We  had  seen  the 
town  miles  away;  and  the  beautiful  Sugar-loaf 
Mountains  served  as  a  background  of  grandeur, 
lifting  their  heads  in  loveliness  and  beauty.  Bea- 
con-lights shone  out  from  the  lofty  bluffs  to  illu- 
mine the  path  of  the  vessel  toward  the  city  and 
along  the  coast.  Soon  from  the  fort  away  we 
heard  the  signal-gun,  which  was  accepted  by  the 
captain  as  a  warning  to  drop  anchor.  And  now 
a  boat  with  the  health-officer  approached,  and  we 
received  the  gentleman  on  boaid.  After  an  exam- 
ination of  the  vessel  and  the  condition  of  the  crew 
was  made  we  were  permitted  to  move  up  the  har- 
bor and  drop  anchor  before  the  city.  The  vessel 
was  now  thoroughly  cleared,  preparatorv  to  dis- 
charging the  cargo. 

The  morning  after  our  arrival  in  the  harbor, 


182  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

Mr.  "Watson  and  the  other  passengers  took  boat 
for  the  shore.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  could  not 
have  them  leave ;  that  I  belonged  to  and  with  these 
American  passengers  more  than  to  this  German 
ship  and  crew.  The  sorrow  of  my  heart  was  most 
keen  when  they  left,  as  I  feared,  forever,  and  in 
their  boat  disappeared  from  my  view.  Now  I  was 
alone,  with  not  one  friend  on  board !  What  should 
I  do?  By  means  of  lighters  we  soon  unloaded  our 
ship.  The  passengers  were  gone,  the  ship's  load- 
ing was  ashore,  and  it  seemed  quite  time  for  me  to- 
go  too.  Bum-boats  daily  visited  our  vessel  with 
a  great  variety  of  luscious  fruits  for  sale.  These 
fruits  looked  tempting  indeed;  and  though  the- 
crew  bought  freely  of  them,  I  had  no  money  with 
which  to  buy,  and  must  go  without.  In  my  anx- 
iety to  get  away,  I  determined  for  a  means  of  live- 
lihood to  leave  the  sea  for  ever.  I  had  seen  enough 
of  it.  My  life,  I  also  deteTmined,  should  be  re- 
formed. Prodigal  that  I  was,  I  would  arise  and 
go  to  my  Father's  house.  And  yet,  would  God 
receive  a  poor  wretch  like  me  ?  Would  he  give 
me  a  place  under  the  shadow  and  shelter  of  his 
gracious  wings?  Wicked  as  I  knew  myself  to  be, 
yet  I  doubted  not  that  the  Father's  love  coverel 
even  my  miserable  case. 

Seventy-six  days   I   had  been    on  the  sea.      I 
had  been  shipped  at  $25  per  month ;  but  of  the  total 


OVER  THE  LINE  AND  INTO  PORT.       183 

amount  of  my  wages  Mr.  Clark  had  taken  |50, 
leaving  me  something  short  of  ^15  as  my  rightful 
due.  Yet  this  small  amount  I  greatly  needed  ;  and 
I  said  to  the  mate  that  I  wished  to  settle  and  be 
put  on  shore.  He  said  the  captain  was  busy,  and 
I  should  wait  until  to-morrow.  Accordingly,  I 
waited  until  the  morrow  came,  when  I  approached 
the  captain  and  asked  to  be  paid  off,  that  I  might 
go  ashore.  He  swore  he  would  hang  me  on  the 
fore-yard  of  his  ship  before  he  would  pay  me  any- 
thing whatever.  I  dared  not  approach  him  again, 
but  begged  piteously  to  be  put  ashore.  Days  roll- 
ed on,  and  meantime  the  captain  and  the  crew  were 
frequently  on  shore.  Evidently  I  was  not  to  be 
allowed  to  go  ashore,  but  was  to  be  compelled  to 
sail  with  them  again.  T  began  to  enter  the  dark 
valley  of  despair.  There  seemed  to  be  no  daj'- 
ligrht  and  no  deliverance  for  me.  What  should  I 
do?  Had  I  no  friend  in  man;  and  had  God  him- 
self at  last  forsaken  me?  Would  he  not  provide 
for  my  deliverance,  and  plan  a  way  for  my  escape? 
I  saw  nowhere  the  signs  of  the  rising  star  of  day. 
Had  God  indeed  cast  me  off  forever?  Had  he 
quite  forgotten  to  be  gracious?  Perhaps  he  would 
yet  providentially  deliver  me. 

One  afternoon  I  heard  the  splash  of  oars,  and 
going  to  the  vessel's  side,  lo,  and  behold,  my 
old  friend  Watson  was  climbing  the  ladder  from  a 


184  THE   LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

"boat  to  the  ship's  deck.  He  grasped  me  kindly  In' 
the  hand,  and  asked  after  my  health.  I  now  felt 
that  my  last  chance  had  ^come,  and  that  I  must 
speedily  and  faithfully  improve  it.  Mr.  "Watson 
had  come  aboard  unexpectedly  to  both  himself 
and  the  crew.  When  he  left  he  never  thought  to 
return  again ;  but,  providential!}'  for  me,  he  had 
forgotten  something  of  his  eftects,  and  for  this  he 
returned.  I  called  him  aside,  and  gave  a  brief  ac- 
count of  the  treatment  I  had  received  from  the 
captain  in  his  absence.  He  stood  a  moment  in 
thoughtful  silence,  and  then  said,  "  Come  with  me." 
I  thought  I  saw  relief,  if  not  release,  in  the  gen- 
tleman's eye  and  motion,  and  with  boldness  and 
alacrity  I  followed  him.  He  led  the  way  to  the 
captain,  and  at  once  and  quite  emphatically  in- 
quired why  he  had  not  settled  with  me,  and  why 
he  had  not  allowed  me  to  go  ashore.  The  captain 
manifested  indignation  at  the  seeming  interference 
of  Mr.  Watson,  and  angrily  replied.  They  both 
descended  into  the  cabin  for  further  talk.  On  their 
return  to  deck  the  captain's  boat  was  lowered,  and 
Mr.  Watson's  forgotten  goods  were  placed  in  it. 
Mr.  Watson  now  told  me  to  descend  to  the  boat. 
How  my  heart  bounded  with  joy  and  gratitude. 
When  aboard  the  boat,  Mr.  Watson  reminded  me 
that  I  had  not  my  clothing.  Indeed,  I  had  not 
thought   of    it,    and    cared    but  little    for    it   at 


OVER  THE  LINE  AND  INTO  PORT.       185 

tlie  thouglit  of  being  free.  He  directed  me  to  re- 
turn for  them.  The  captain  objected  to  my  taking 
tliem,  but  Mr.  Watson  insisted  and  prevailed.  I 
was  soon  in  the  boat  again  with  my  deliverer,  and 
this  time  with  my  personal  eft'ects.  The  boat  in 
an  instant  was  more  of  home  to  me  than  ever  the 
ship  had  been.  A  row  of  hfteen  minutes  brought 
us  to  the  wharf,  and  I  was  allowed  once  more  to 
step  on  God's  solid  earth. 


186  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DATS. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

FRIENDS   IN    A    STRANGE    LAND. 

For  three  months  I  had  paced  the  deck,  with  only 
the  rolling  seas  beneath  me ;  now  I  was  on  land 
again,  thongh  thousands  of  miles  from  my  own 
native  clime.  In  the  whole  continent  of  South 
America  I  knew  but  three  human  beings  besides 
the  crew  of  the  vessel  I  had  left;  and  of  these  I 
should  see  again  only  Mr.  "Watson.  On  getting 
on  the  wharf  I  found  men  busily  engaged  in  unload- 
ing boats,  and  in  other  wharf-labor,  talking  in  a 
most  excited  though  natural  manner,  in  a  language 
I  had  never  before  heard.  It  was  Spanish,  and  to 
me  in  very  pleasant  contrast  with  the  German. 
The  tone  was  very  excited,  and  yet  I  soon  learned 
that  in  the  coolest  moments  this  was  customary. 

Mr.  Watson  left  me  in  the  office  of  a  ship-chan- 
dler and  went  out  for  a  short  time  to  attend  to  some 
business,  promising,  however,  to  return  for  me  soon. 
According  to  his  promise,  he  returned.  Meantime  I 
enjoyed  my  stay.  I  was  in  an  American  store,  the 
merchants  being  American  and  their  language  the 
English,     Never  before  did  my  language  sound  so 


FRIENDS   IN   A    STRANGE   LAND.  18T 

dear  to  me.  Mr.  "Watson  congratulated  me  iu  get- 
ting out  of  Sourbier's  hands,  and  told  me  to  see  ta 
it  that  I  kept  myself  oat  of  them.  The  captain 
had  insisted  that  I  should  return  again,  and  thus 
had  objected  to  my  taking  my  clothing.  "What 
the  promise  of  Mr.  Watson  was,  I  do  not  know; 
])ut  what  his  personal  determination  and  advice 
were,  I  was  now  made  to  understand.  He  pro- 
posed to  take  me  to  the  consul's  office,  and  see 
what  could  be  done  for  me.  We  stepped  inta 
a  carriage  drawn  by  two  mules,  driven  by  a 
Spaniard,  and  after  a  brief  ride  through  narrow 
streets  were  halted  at  the  American  consul's  office. 
Mr.  Watson  at  once  acquainted  the  consul  with 
the  general  circumstances  of  my  case,  speaking 
largely  and  with  excited  interest  and  sympathy 
from  his  own  experience.  The  consul,  whose 
name  memory  fails  to  serve  me,  manifested  much 
indignation  over  the  recital,  and  kindly  told  me  to 
feel  easy,  assuring  me  that  he  would  do  all  in  his 
power  for  me.  He  wrote  me  a  permit  to  the  hos- 
pital, and  assured  me  that  I  should  want  for  noth- 
ing; also,  that  I  should  be  sent  to  my  northern 
and  native  home  as  soon  as  possible.  How  won- 
derful this  talk  and  these  expressions  of  sympathy 
and  humanity  seemed  to  me.  In  a  moment  the 
dark  clouds  that  had  been  gathering  for  months 
were  silver-lined,  or  gone.     If  ever  gratitude  well- 


188  THE   LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAY8. 

ed  Up  m  my  bosom  it  was  then,  and  iu  that  spot. 
I  becjaii  to  feel  that  God  liad  not  forficotteu  me,  and 
that  he  was  raising  up  friends  that  would  show 
me  needed  mercy. 

Mr.  "Watson  now  had  our  carriage  driven  through 
the  city  for  half  an  hour  or  so,  to  a  fine  large  build- 
ing known  as  the  hospital,  to  the  accommodations 
and  immunities  of  which  my  permit  from  the  con- 
sal  gave  me  the  liberty.  I  was  led  into  the  office 
of  the  house,  where  my  name  was  taken,  together 
with  those  of  my  parents,  my  residence,  etc. ;  and 
man}'  questions  were  asked  me  bearing  on  my  own 
life  and  late  history.  The  name  of  my  vessel — the 
Vincie — was  also  taken.  This  institution  I  found 
to  be  under  the  management  of  the  Catholics,  like 
Brazil,  in  its  general  interests.  A  belt  was  rung, 
and  a  sister  of  charity,  a  large  Spanish  woman, 
appeared  and  took  me  in  cliarge.  Here  I  bid  Mr. 
"Watson  good-by,  he  promising  to  call  and  see  me 
soon  again.  I  was  conducted  to  the  bath-room, 
where,  after  washing,  I  was  furnished  with  a  linen 
suit  throughout,  even  including  hat  and  slippers. 
I  was  now  led  to  the  hair-dresser,  where  I  was 
closely  trimmed,  and  then  conducted  to  the  sitting- 
room  of  the  establishment.  Here  were  a  dozen 
young  men,  among  whom  were  several  Americans, 
and  one  Philadelphian  with  the  rest.  The  reader 
may  well  imagine  that  this  wonderful  change  from 


FRIENDS   IN   A   STRANGE   LAND  18^ 

the  condition  and  life  of  the  shij)  was  an  appre- 
ciated relief,  and  that  the  company  into  which  I 
had  fallen  was  an  agreeable  surprise  to  me. 

From  the  hour  of  my  entrance  to  the  hospital 
I  received  from  the  sisters  the  kindest  possible 
treatment,  and  many  little  tokens  of  genuine  Chris- 
tian love.  Two  of  them  spoke  English  quite  flu- 
ently, and  this,  with  my  American  companions, 
made  me  feel  from  the  first  quite  at  home.  The 
English,  as  a  language,  never  seemed  to  me  more 
beautiful  and  charming  than  now. 

During  my  three  months'  stay  Mr.  AYatson  often 
called  and  showed  me  verj^  many  acts  of  kindness,, 
thereby  endearing  himself  for  all  time  to  my  heart. 
He  was  seeking  constantly  to  find  for  me  a  passage 
homeward ;  and  one  day  he  brought  with  him  the 
captain  of  a  vessel  bound  for  California,  by 
way  of  Cape  Horn.  It  was  not  known,  from  the 
depredations  of  the  Alabam-a,  that  any  other  way 
would  soon  oifer.  This  captain  kindly  volunteered 
to  take  me  through  to  San  Francisco  without 
charge,  and  thought  that  from  there  I  could  easily, 
get  home  to  my  father.  The  captain  of  the  Cali- 
fornia vessel  was  not  yet  ready  to  embark,  enter- 
taining fears  of  the  Alabama,  perhaps,  which  had 
lately  been  in  the  port  of  Rio  Janeiro.  Before 
the  time  for  his  sailing  Captain  Pluramer  arrived 
at  the  port,  intending  soon  to  sail  for  ISTew  York; 


190  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DATS. 

and  Mr.  "Watson  kindly  arranged  witli  him  for  my 
homeward  passage.  Captain  Plummer  personally 
«,ssured  me  that  he  would  orladlv  take  me,  and  see 
that  I  had  every  kindness.  He  was  to  sail  in  a 
single  week. 

The  sisters  came  to  me  privately  and  almost  pro- 
tested against  my  going  from  them.  They  said  I 
Avas  in  poor  health,  and  needed  the  hest  of  atten- 
tion, and  that  if  I  would  I  could  permanently  re- 
main in  their  hospital  and  hospitable  home.  In- 
■deed,  the  temptation  was  strong;  but  I  knew  that 
with  all  their  kindness  there  were  open  arms  and 
warm  hearts  awaiting  my  coming  in  the  dear  old 
home  of  my  childhood.  They  sought  to  magnify 
the  dangers  of  the  deep,  and  brought  freshly  to 
my  mind  the  suite  rings  I  had  endured.  As  a  final 
argument,  they  said  a  distinguished  Parisian  doc- 
tor was  to  arrive  in  a  few  weeks,  and  his  advice 
and  treatment  would  be  valuable  to  me.  I  ought 
at  least  to  stay  and  see  him.  However,  I  deter- 
mined to  go  home  with  Captain  Plummer,  and  all 
necessar}' arrangements  were  made  for  the  voyage. 

Just  before  the  day  of  sailing,  however,  Mr. 
Watson  called  again,  bringing  with  him  Captain 
Thomson,  bound  for  Baltimore.  He  was  to  sail  in 
one  month;  and  if  I  would  tarry  for  him  an  op- 
portunity would  otter  for  an  interview  with  the 
Ifrench  physician.     A  sick  lady  was  also  desirous 


FRIENDS    IN    A    STRANGE    LAND.  191 

of  my  place  on  Captain  Plummer's  ship,  and  I  was 
asked  to  give  way  to  her.  Of  course  I  consented, 
and  yet  felt  exceedingly  dejected  at  the  prospect 
of  tarrying  in  Brazil  a  full  month.  The  doctor 
came,  as  was  expected,  and  a  careful  examination 
of  my  eyes  followed.  At  the  close  of  the  inspec- 
tion he  remarked  to  one  of  the  sisters,  "  No  sta- 
hone,^'  which  I  was  afterward  informed  meant  "  no 
good,"  or  "  no  use."  He  then  told  me  that  I  could 
havano  help;  that  finally  my  eyes  would  go  speed- 
ily, but  might  possibly  last  me  a  full  year.  Thus 
his  voice  but  conlirmed  the  dread  decree  against 
me  of  the  Philadelphia  physicians;  and  I  began  to 
realize  more  fully  now  than  ever  that  I  must  become 
blind  at  last.  The  conclusion  was  horrible  to  me, 
and  serv'ed  to  increase  the  longing  of  my  heart  to 
get  to  my  own  father's  home  again.  But  I  must 
patiently  wait  now  for  the  set  time  of  Captain 
Thomson.  The  way  was  provided,  and  soon  I  should 
be  homeward  bound. 

During  my  s*fty  in  Brazil  no  opportunity  had 
offered  for  me  to  send  mail  -uorth,  and"  no  word 
had  I  been  able  to  communicate  to  my  home.  Lit- 
tle did  I  know  of  the  anxiety  and  the  misery  of 
those  dear  home  hearts.  Meantime  I  was  restins: 
comfortably  as  a  stranger  in  one  of  the  most  inter- 
esting countries  of  the  world.  I  knew  Brazil  to  be 
the  leading  nation  of  the  South  American  conti- 


192  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

nent,  and  really  the  second  nation  in  importance, 
extent,  and  population  of  the  new  world 

A  few  words  of  this  nation  and  country  here 
may  not  be  out  of  place,  and  in  keeping  with  the 
plan  of  this  autobiography.  The  territorial  area  of 
South  America  is  6,959,000  square  miles,  while 
Brazil  has  an  area  of  3,252,900  square  miles,  or 
nearly  one  half  of  all.  The  population  of  the  con- 
tinent is  25,675,000,  and  that  of  Brazil  is  10,000,000, 
or  about  two  fifths  of  all.  It  is  the  only  monarchy 
within  South  America,  and  in  an  independent  sense 
the  only  one  in  the  new  world.  Brazil  was  discovered 
May  3cl,  1500,  by  Vincente  Yanes  Pincon,  a  com- 
panion of  Columbus,  and  was  soon  after  taken 
possession  of  by  Pedro  Alvarez  Cabral.  Brazil 
continued  as  a  province  of  Portugal  until  1822, 
when  Bom  Pedro  I.,  father  of  the  present  sover- 
eign, declared  Brazil  free  and  independent  of  the 
home  government.  April  7th,  1831,  Bom  Pedro 
abdicated  in  favor  of  his  son,  a  child  of  but  five 
years  of  age.  A  regency  of  three  persons  con- 
ducted the  government  until  1840,  when  Bom 
Pedro  was  declared  of  age,  though  only  in  his 
fifteenth  year.  On  July  18th,  1841,  he  was  crown- 
ed as  emperor.  In  1866  the  emperor  emancipated 
his  own  slaves,  and  in  1871  the  legislature  provided 
for  the  gradual  emancipation  of  the  slaves  of  the 
entire  empire. 


FEIEXDS    IN    A    STKANGE    l.A.XD.  193 

The  religion  of  the  state  is  Romun  Catholic ;  but 
since  1811  other  religions  have  been  tolerated.  The 
Protestant  population  is  probably  short  of  50,000; 
but  great  progress  is  being  made  by  the  missionaries 
of  the  various  Protestant  bodies.  From  present  indi- 
cations, the  disestablishment  of  the  Roman  Catholic 
Church  will  be  realized  at  no  distant  day.  The 
people  have  very  small  confidence  in  the  priest- 
hood, and  their  influence  is  waning  in  proportion 
as  civilization  and  education  advance.  The  press 
has  a  large  degree  of  liberty,  and  is  severely  out- 
spoken against  the  intolerance  and  corruption  of 
the  Roman  Church.  The  policy  of  the  present 
emperor  is  exceedingly  enlightened,  and  he  is  ev- 
erywhere encouraging  the  establishment  of  good 
and  free  schools.  Pom  Pedro  is  at  this  time 
(June,  1876,)  traveling  in  the  United  States,  and  is 
everywhere  welcomed  and  honored  as  a  worthy 
representative  of  the  throne. 

Brazil  is  much  more  prolific  in  both  animal  and 
vegetable  forms  of  life  than  any  other  part  of  the 
known  world.  The  butterflies,  for  example,  are 
most  beautiful  and  numerous.  All  the  known 
species  of  Europe  number  but  390,  while  those  ob 
served  in  the  town  of  Para,  Brazil,  alone  number 
700  distinct  species.  Prof.  Agassiz  found  in  the 
Amazon  alone  1,163  new  species  of  fish,  which  is 
more  than  the  entire  Mediterranean  Sea  produces. 

13 


194  THE    LIGHT   OF   OTHER   DAYS. 

Eio  Janeiro,  or,  as  more  commouly  known,  Kio, 
is  possessed  of  the  finest  harbor  not  only  in  South 
America,  but  all  over  the  known  world.  It  is  also 
regarded  as  the  safest ;  and  it  is  certainly  the  most 
capacious.  Its  entrance  is  marked  by  a  remarka- 
ble hill  resembling  in  form  a  sugar-loaf — whence 
its  name.  This  attains  the  hight  of  900  feet,  and 
is  from  the  sea  a  most  conspicuous  and  beautiful 
presentation.  This  is  on  the  west  side  of  the  bay 
or  harbor,  while  on  the  opposite  side,  at  a  dis- 
tance of  one  and  one  half  miles,  stands  the  fort  of 
Santa  Cruz,  on  which  is  a  light-house.  On  the 
bosom,  and  beautifully  bestuddingthe  bay,  lie  some- 
thing like  100  islands,  some  in  a  high  state  of  cul- 
tivation. The  dock-yard  and  marine  establish- 
ments are  found  on  one  of  these  harbor  islands. 
There  being  no  obstructions,  ships  may  enter  the 
harbor  day  or  night,  while  the  navies  of  the  world, 
and  indeed  their  entire  shipping,  may  ride  com- 
fortably upon  its  capacious  bosom. 

The  city  is  surrounded  by  an  amphitheater  of 
hills  and  mountains,  which  present  a  beautiful 
spectacle  from  the  bay.  The  population  is  about 
400,000,  making  it  not  only  the  most  important 
commercial  city  of  South  America,  but  also  the 
most  populous.  As  the  capital  of  the  country,  it 
contains  the  palace  of  the  emperor,  and  other  state 
buildings,  together  with  a  beautiful  cathedral  on  a. 


FEIENDS   m  A   STRANGE   LAND.  195 

Jofty  eminence  commanding  the  sea;  also  several 
■convents,  hospitals,  and  other  institutions  of  char- 
ity. The  general  architecture  of  the  city  is  not 
prepossessing ;  but  the  streets  are  well  laid  out, 
intersecting  each  other  at  right  angles,  while  they 
are  paved  with  heavy  blocks  of  granite,  and  have 
-central  water-courses.  The  moral  habits  of  the 
people  are  not  what  one  would  wish,  and  do  not 
■speak  very  well  for  the  controlling  church.  Sun- 
day is  observed  chiefly  as  a  gala  day ;  and  in  the 
sense  that  Protestants  of  America  respect  and  ob- 
serve it,  it  is  not  known. 

One  beautiful  morning,  as  I  was  enjoying  the 
breeze  and  a  delicious  orange,  suddenly  my  friend 
Mr.  Watson  came  upon  me  and  said,  hurried- 
ly, "  My  boy,  I  have  come  for  you.  The  ves- 
sel is  ready  to  sail,  and  now  you  can  go  home." 
In  the  excitement  of  the  moment  my  feelings  quite 
overcame  me.  Was  it  indeed  true  that  I  might 
embark  for  my  own  home !  Though  in  almost 
daily  expectation  of  the  announcement,  yet  I  was 
surprised  when  it  came.  The  place,  too,  had  come 
to  seem  like  home  to  me.  Everything  had  been 
so  pleasant,  and  all  had  been  so  kind,  that  but  for 
the  loved  ones  at  home  I  could  willingly  have  re- 
mained forever. 

The  sisters,  when  it  was  known  that  I  must  go, 
remembered  me  with  many  presents;  and  this  gave- 


196  THE   LIGHT    OF   OTHER   DAYS. 

me  new  assurances  of  their  kindness  and  love» 
Tearfully  I  bid  them  good-by,  and  received  their 
parting  blessings. 

With  Mr.  Watson  as  a  guide,  after  a  brisk  walk 
of  half  an  hour  we  were  again  at  the  ship-chan- 
dler's office,  where  I  had  tirst  came  on  landing.  I 
was  kindly  entertained,  and  much  conversation 
ensued  touching  my  treatment  on  board  Captain 
Sourbier's  German  ship.  I  was  shown  a  chest  con- 
taining my  own  clothing,  all  neatly  washed  and 
ironed,  and  two  other  entire  suits.  This,  I  was 
told,  was  all  my  own.  I  felt  proud,  rich,  and  grate- 
ful, as  may  well  be  imagined  by  the  reader.  I  was 
now  taken  on  board  the  ship,  Mr.  Watson  accom- 
panying me,  and  seeing  me  safely  in  the  hands  of 
Captain  Thomson.  He  now  bid  me  a  fatherly 
good-by,  and  at  parting  said,  "  May  God  bless  you^ 
my  boy."  My  heart  was  too  full  to  do  more  than, 
say  good-by. 

I  parted  from  the  man  who  had  shown  me  most 
marvelous  kindness.  Never  more  should  I  look 
upon  his  face  in  life.  The  man  who  had  proved 
himself  the  sent  of  God  to  me  was  gradually  re- 
ceding from  my  vision.  I  trust  God  heard,  record- 
ed, and  answered  the  prayers  with  which  I  followed 
his  receding  form.  Never  did  a  child  of  Adam 
more  deeply  need  a  friend  than  I,  in  my  for- 
saken, lonely,  wretched,  and  almost  dying  condi- 


FRIENDS   IN   A   STRANGE   LAND.  l97 

tion;  and  never  did  a  truer,  nobler,  and  more  de- 
serving friend  appear  in  behalf  of  a  suffering  fellow 
than  Mr.  Watson,  the  merchant  stranger  of  'New 
York.  If  Heaven  remembers  and  rewards  a  cup 
of  cold  water  given  to  a  suffering  disciple,  what 
will  not  Heaven  do  for  a  man  whose  acts  of  Chris- 
tian devotion  and  disinterested  love  had,  even 
toward  this  humble  child,  been  numbered  by  hun- 
dreds and  thousands  ?  How  much  h6  did  for  me, 
I  shall  never  know ;  how  much  I  loved  and  rever- 
enced the  man  for  his  devotion,  he  can  never  know. 
I  hope  to  meet  him  in  heaven,  and  from  a  grateful 
heart,  a  heart  that  then  can  see  all  things  in  their 
true  light,  thank  him  once  more.  Until  then, 
my  prayers  shall  arise  to  Him  that  sitteth  upon  the 
throne  for  a  daily  blessing  on  his  head  and  his 
home. 

That  I  now  retrospected  my  life  with  bitter  tears, 
no  one  can  doubt ;  and  that  I  formed  good  resolu- 
tions for  the  future,  none  can  wonder.  After  ex- 
periencing all  that  I  had,  it  would  be  both  ungener- 
ous and  inhuman  not  to  be  grateful  to  God,  who 
had  never  for  one  moment  forsaken  me.  I  vowed 
before  my  Master  that  I  would  reform  my  life'and 
yield  him  my  heart  in  willing  and  devoted  service. 
He  should  have  practical  demonstrations  of  my 
sincerity  and  of  my  gratitude.  I  craved  anew  his 
protecting   care  for  my  journey  over  the  deep, 


198  THE    LIGHT   OF   OTHER  DAYS 

angry  sea,  and  pleaded  with  him  to  lead  me  in  safe- 
ty to  my  father's  door  and  my  mother's  arms.  I 
would  humble  myself  like  the  prodigal  at  their 
feet;  I  would  give  them  tokens  of  my  repentance^ 
and  prove  the  fervency  of  my  love  and  devotion. 
I  knew  that  as  God  had,  so  would  my  parents  ac- 
cept and  receive  and  forgive  me. 


THE    HOMEWARD   VOYAGE.  199 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

THE   HOMEWARD   VOYAGE. 

The  crew  were  taking  aboard  the  balance  of  their 
cargo,  consisting  chiefly  of  coffee.  All  seemed 
happy  and  contented  in  their  labor;  and  with 
the  creaking  of  the  tackle  was  heard  the  merry 
shout  and  the  good-natured  rally  of  the  men. 
They  were  with  one  or  two  exceptions  Ameri- 
cans, and  the  language  of  all  was  my  own 
mother-tongue.  Our  vessel  was  a  full-rigged  bark, 
— the  Agnes, — belonging  to  Baltimore,  com- 
manded by  Captain  Thomson,  and  manned  by  a 
crew  of  some  fifteen  men.  The  ship  was  new  and 
Btout,  and  in  general  appearance  and  arrangements 
much  like  a  home  of  comfort.  Its  route  was  from 
Baltimore  to  Bio  Janeiro,  and  it  was  built  expressly 
for  the  coffee  trade.  Captain  Thomson  was  a  tall, 
well-proportioned  man,  of  some  sixty  years.  He 
was  hearty  and  healthy,  but  gray  of  beard.  He 
was  full  of  kindness  and  genial  cordiality.  He  re- 
ceived me  on  board  with  much  kindness,  and 
tenderly  inquired  after  my  health,  expressing  hope 


200  THE    LIGHT    OF   OTHER   DATS. 

for  its  improvement.  At  his  instance  I  gave  him 
a  detailed  account  of  mj  former  experience  with 
Captain  Sourbier,  at  which  he  expressed  much  in- 
dignation, and  assured  me  that  from  him  I  could 
depend  on  attention  and  sympathy.  Indeed,  the 
general  appearance  of  the  captain,  crew,  and 
ship  inspired  me  at  sight  with  a  feeling  of  con- 
tent and  satisfaction.  The  dinner  provided  was 
most  relishable,  and  consisted  of  every  delicacy 
and  comfort  that  one  could  wish.  It  was  in  won- 
derful contrast  with  that  furnished  by  the  German 
ship.  Instead  of  being  placed  back  in  a  gloomy 
bunk  of  the  forecastle,  I  was  provided  with  h  pleas- 
ant state-room  for  my  own  exclusive  use,  neatly 
and  comfortably  furnished.  My  meals  were  some- 
times brought  to  my  room ;  but  usually  I  sat  at 
the  captain's  table,  and  fared  as  he  fared  in  every- 
thing. 

In  the  course  of  the  afternoon  my  chest  was 
brought  to  my  room,  and  the  keys  thereof  given 
into  my  hands.  Of  course,  I  promptly  made  a 
general  survey  of  the  contents,  a  survey  which, 
though  prompted  somewhat  by  curiosity,  served  to 
awaken  new  and  fervient  gratitude  toward  my  dear 
old  benefactor,  Mr.  "Watson.  Besides  two  com- 
plete suits  of  clothing, — the  one  for  warm  and 
tropical  weather  and  the  other  for  cold  and  north- 
ern weather, — I  found  an  abundance  of  under- 


THE   HOMEWARD    VOYAGE.  201 

clotliing  and  outer  garments  adapted  to  mj  wants 
in  every  way.  ISTo  ^Yant  was  forgotten  or  iinsup- 
plied,  A  mother,  from  a  rich  treasury  and  from  a 
heart  of  richer  affection,  could  have  done  little 
more  than  this  God-given  friend  and  Christian  bene- 
factor had  done  for  me.  Had  I  been  his  own  child  I 
could  have  said,  "Father,  you  have  done  enough, 
and  deserve  my  fullest  love."  Neither  had  he  forgot- 
ten the  appetite,  but  from  that  rich,  tropical  climate 
had  selected  of  its  choicest  delicacies  in  the  line  of 
fruits,  etc.,  and  placed  them  carefully  in  my  chest. 
Could  a  mother  have  been  more  thoughtful,  or  a 
father  more  considerate?  Was  it  not  enough  that 
he  had  secured  my  passage  free  and  a  place  for  me 
at  the  captain's  own  table?  It  was  enough  to 
awaken  everlasting  gratitude;  but  not  all,  as  the 
reader  shall  yet  be  made  to  understand. 

After  a  refreshing  sleep,  preceded,  I  am  sure, 
by  grateful  praj'ers  and  a  trustful  resigning  of  my 
life  to  the  Fatlier's  care,  I  was  early  awakened  by 
the  merry  singing  of  the  crew.  I  was  on  deck  in 
season  to  witness  the  hoisting  of  the  anchor,  the 
loosening  of  the  sails,  and  the  general  preparation 
for  getting  under  way,  and  on  the  homeward  voy- 
age. Among  the  sailors  there  was  no  wrangling 
and  no  confusion ;  few  loud  words  were  heard,  and 
nothing  that  bore  the  faintest  resemblance  to  an 
oath.    Indeed,  during  the  entire  voyage  of  several 


202  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

months  I  did  not  hear  a  single  oath  from  any  of 
the  crew.  I  do  not  know  that  there  was  the 
least  inclination  to  profanity.  The  rules  of 
Captain  Thomson  would  admit  of  no  oath  aboard 
his  ship.  As  I  sat  down  to  breakfast  our  goodly 
ship  began  to  move  out  under  the  gentle  breeze, 
and  at  last  I  was  homeward  bound.  The  breeze 
that  fanned  the  sea  and  the  gale  which  swept  the 
ocean  should  bear  me  home.  God  directed  both, 
and  under  his  protecting  hand  should  I  sail. 

"What  a  merciful  Providence  had  overshadowed 
me,  and  how  wonderful  the  change  he  had  wrought 
in  my  behalf.  Three  months  before  I  was  lying 
on  shipboard  in  this  harbor  with  no  friend  on 
board,  and  knowing  not  that  I  had  one  single 
friend  within  my  reach.  I  felt  that  God  had  quite 
cast  me  oft",  and  had  forgotten  me  in  his  anger  for- 
ever. Insults,  threats,  and  death  itself,  stared  me 
blankly  in  the  face,  and  1  knew  not  which  way  nor 
where  to  turn  for  the  simplest  help  or  smallest 
comfort.  No  one  in  all  the  world  could  reach  me 
with  one  word  of  love  or  one  smile  of  sympathy. 
But  now  might  I  say,  "What  hath  God  wrought, 
and  why  is  his  providence  so  gracious  toward  me  ?" 
Every  benefit  I  possessed  I  owed,  and  now,  bless 
his  name,  I  owned,  to  him.  Had  I  friends,  com- 
forts, luxuries  indeed;  they  were  all  from  that 
Pather's  hand  from  whom  cometh  every  good  and 


THE   HOMEWARD   VOYAGE.  20S 

perfect  gift,  and  who  looks  down  with  favor  upon 
the  falling  sparrow  and  crying  raven,  and  even 
nnmbereth  the  hairs  of  our  weary  heads.  Well 
might  I  trust  in  him,  and  siifler  his  guidance  of 
ray  feet  in  the  way. 

!N'ow  we  were  sailing  out  of  the  harbor  into 
the  bay  ;  and  the  city  which  had  atibrded  me  pro- 
tection and  given  me  a  home  and  the  tokens  of 
tender  love  was  receding  from  my  gaze.  Surely 
never  mcjre  should  I  see  it  in  its  loveliness  and 
grandeur,  until  from  on  high  I  should  look  down 
upon  it;  and  then,  could  1  hold  the  cup,  surely 
I  would  pour  forth  blessings  with  grateful  re- 
membrance upon  the  people.  All  day  long  we 
were  sailing  down  the  bay,  hovering  close  to  the 
land,  as  if  dreading  to  release  our  hold  upon  its 
protecting  wings.  Even  when  the  shades  of  even- 
ing crept  over  us  the  coast  and  the  crowning  hills 
thereof  were  near;  and  until  my  own  retirement 
for  the  night  the  lights  of  the  homes  upon  the  not 
distant  shore  sent  forth  their  dim  and  twinkling 
rays  as  if  to  lighten  our  way  on  the  deep.  Nature 
had  veiled  her  face  in  the  cloud  of  darkness,  but 
the  Lord  of  nature  still  gave  us  tokens  of  his 
friendly  presence.  In  the  morning,  as  I  arose,  I 
looked  shoreward,  instinctively  hoping  for  one 
more  sight  of  the  friendly  coast  of  Brazil ;  but  all 
was  in  vain,  for  distance  had  sunken  the  land  in 


20-4  THE   LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

the  sea  and  dissolved  the  forms  of  the  toweriuff 
peaks,  and  the  face  of  the  deep  only  was  visible  to 
my  gaze.  I  was  out  upon  the  raging  billows  again, 
and  yet  sailing,  I  felt,  as  in  the  hollow  of  the  Mas- 
ter's hand. 

Captain  Plummer,  with  whom  I  had  intended  sail- 
ing, was  delayed  longer  than  he  expected,  and  his 
vessel  set  sail  only  the  day  before  the  one  on  which 
we  sailed.  The  captain  of  our  ship  was  continually 
on  the  lookout  for  him;  and  ten  days  or  so  after 
sailing  we  sighted  his  vessel,  but  were  not  near 
enough  to  speak  her.  The  time  dragged  on  quite 
heavily  and  wearily  from  haviug  no  labor  and  from 
inabilit}'  to  read.  This  was  a  wonderful  privation 
to  me,  as  I  had  spent  much  time  over  literature, 
and  felt  therefore  the  more  need  of  it.  The  lessons 
of  the  page,  however,  were  now  too  dim ;  they  had 
faded  forever  from  my  sight.  It  cheered  me,  nev- 
ertheless, to  know  that  the  face  of  man  was  yet 
distinct,  and  that  with  the  daylight  I  could  get 
about  without  help.  The  dimness  of  my  vision 
was  gradually  increasing,  and  yet  I  trusted  that 
sight  would  not  altogether  go  until  I  could  once 
more  see  the  faces  of  father,  mother,  sisters,  and 
brother.  It  would  not  be  enough,  I  thought,  to 
clasp  their  hands  and  hear  their  words;  I  must 
see  them  too. 

Though  unable  to  read  myself,  yet  I  was  highly 


THE   HOMEWARD   VOYAGE.  206 

favored  in  this  line.  On  board  our  ship  was  a  boy 
of  some  fifteen  years,  a  nephew  of  the  captain,. 
He  afforded  me  much  company,  and  showed  me 
great  kindness  withal.  He  was  a  Catholic  boy  (and 
I  also  supposed  the  captain  to  be  a  Catholic),  but  was 
evidently  much  devoted  to  the  Master's  will.  One 
day  soon  after  sailing  he  came  to  my  room  and 
offered,  at  the  suggestion  of  the  captain,  to  read  for 
me.  He  also  proposed  to  read  from  the  Bible,  which 
he  largely  did.  The  readings  included  many  of  my 
old  Sabbath-school  lessons,  and  were  both  inter- 
esting and  refreshing  to  me.  Never  did  God's 
word  seem  more  sublime  and  more  worthy  the  lips 
of  Him  who  spake  as  ifever  man  spake. 

The  time  wore  on  pleasantly,  and  great  kindness 
was  shown  me  by  all.  Perfect  harmony,  too,  pre- 
vailed among  the  men,  and  the  evenings  were 
usually  spent  in  inspiring  song.  A  Mr.  Richards, 
an  Englishman,  was  a  tine  vocalist,  while  several 
others  of  the  crew  understood  the  use  of  various 
instruments.  These  were  in  frequent  use,  and, 
with  the  songs,  were  truly  inspiring.  "We  are 
out  on  the  ocean  sailing,"  was  a  frequent  song,  and 
much  enjoyed  by  all.  No  labor  was  performed  on 
the  Sabbath,  except  such  as  the  sailing  of  the  ship 
absolutely  required.  This  was  in  great  contrast 
with  what  transpired  on  Captain  Sourbier's  ship 
and  in  the  capital  Catholic  city  of  Rio  Janeiro. 


206  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

For  the  crew  of  the  one  and  the  inhabitants  of  the 
■other,  in  the  usual  American  acceptation,  there 
was  no  Sabbath. 

After  sailing  several  weeks  with  an  almost  con- 
■stantly  pleasant  sea,  I  learned  from  the  captain 
that  it  was  his  purpose  to  put  into  St.  Thomas, 
that  he  might  register  his  vessel  as  a  means  of  se- 
<;urity  against  the  Alabama  and  other  rebel  craft. 
A  few  days  after  this  information  we  were  cheered 
with  the  announcement  from  the  man  at  the  fore- 
top,  "Land  ho."  This  cry  on  shipboard  is  often 
electrifying,  and  under  the  circumstances  was  par- 
ticularly so  to  us.  After  we  had  nearly  approached 
St.  Thomas  we  discovered  a  sail,  which,  to  the  joy 
■of  all,  proved  to  be  that  of  the  vessel  of  Captain 
Plummer.  He  was  also  putting  into  St.  Thomas 
for  the  same  purpose.  The  wind  became  boister- 
ous toward  night,  and  our  captain  determined  to 
lay  aback  until  the  morning  before  risking  the 
entrance  to  the  harbor.  Captain  Plummer,  how- 
ever, was  more  resolute,  and  he  passed  on,  entering 
the  channel  and  the  harbor  safely  that  night.  The 
next  morning  after  dropping  anchor  in  the  harbor 
Captain  Plummer  came  on  board,  with  whom  we 
had  a  pleasant  visit.  From  him,  however,  I  learn- 
ed the  dreadful  news  that  the  sick  lady  to  whom 
I  had  given  up  my  room  had  died  when  they  were 
two  weeks  out  from  Rio  Janeiro.     This  intelligence 


THE    HOMEWARD    VOYAGE.  207 

completely  unnerved  me,  for  from  my  own  feelings 
I  knew  how  intensely  anxious  she  must  have  been 
to  reach  the  loved  ones  at  home.  Of  course,  they 
were  obliged  also  to  bury  her  at  sea. 

"Not  in  the  church-yard  should  she  sleep, 
Amid  its  silent  gloom; 
She  died  upon  the  miglitv  deep, 
And  there  she  found  her  tomb. 

"For  her  broke  not  the  grassy  turf, 
Nor  turned  the  dewy  sod; 
Her  dust  shall  rest  beneath  the  surf, 
Her  spirit  with  her  God." 

Rev.  Dr.  Cuyler  speaks  as  follows  of  a  burial  at 
sea,  as  witnessed  by  himself.  The  body  was  that 
of  a  man;  and  the  man  was  a  miserable,  drunken 
creature,  whose  death  few  mourned,  save  in  sym- 
pathy for  the  weeping  wife  and  dependent  children  : 

"  After  the  summary  fashion  on  shipboard,  the 
body  was  inclosed  in  blankets,  bound  around  with 
coils  of  rope,  and  stretched  upon  a  plank.  To  the 
feet  a  large  weight  was  attached,  and  the  whole 
was  then  swung  over  the  ship's  side  and  made 
fast  with  ropes.  Soon  the  boatswain  piped  all 
hands  to  burial.  Wlien  the  poor  widow  had  come 
forward  and  taken  her  seat  on  a  little  cabin-stool 
set  for  the  purpose,  with  her  two  children  by  her 
side,  the  captain  commenced  reading  the  burial 
service.     "When   the  captain    had   concluded  the 


208  THE   LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

words,  '  We  therefore  commit  his  body  to  the 
deep,'  the  signal  was  given,  a  heavy  splash  was 
heard,  and  the  body  sunk  like  lead  in  the  mighty 
waters.  A  few  bubbles  rose  to  the  surface,  which 
were  the  only  memorials  that  shall  ever  rise  to 
mark  his  resting-place." 

Of  more  than  six  months  spent  on  the  sea,  I  had 
v.'itnessed  no  death,  and  was  spared  the  deep  so- 
lemnities of  a  sea-burial. 

Our  vessel  lay  in  the  harbor  some  ten  days  while 
registering,  but  feeling  badly  I  chose  not  to  go 
ashore  or  into  the  town.  The  bum-boats  came 
thickly  about  us,  as  in  the  harbor  of  Rio  Janeiro; 
and  though  this  time  I  had  no  money  at  personal 
command,  yet  the  captain  kindly  anticipated  every 
wish  and  supplied  every  want.  "VYe  took  in  a  sup- 
ply of  fresh  water,  paying  therefor  four  cents  a 
gallon.  There  happens  to  be  no  water  on  the 
island,  save  what  is  caught  in  cisterns;  and  while 
this  supply  is  poor,  it  is  also  often  quite  short.  St. 
Thomas  is  a  small  island  of  but  thirty-seven  square 
miles  and  8,000  inhabitants.  It  belongs  to  Denmark, 
with  Santa  Cruz  and  St.  John,  two  small  contig- 
uous islands  of  the  "West  India  group.  Their  total 
area  is  but  190  square  miles,  and  their  total  popu- 
lation 46,000.  When  we  emerged  from  the  Danish 
harbor  of  St.  Thomas  we  flung  the  flag  of  a  for- 
eign nation  to  the  breeze;  and  we  sailed  hence- 


THE    HOMEWARD    VOYAGE.  209 

forth  with  a  feeling  of  security,  so  far  as  rebel  craft 
was  concerned. 

We  now  began  to  realize  that  we  were  approach- 
ing a  northern  clime,  and  that  much  differ- 
ence existed  between  January  in  the  tropics  and 
January  in  the  North.  The  thicker  suit  was  made 
to  replace  the  thinner  one,  and  again  I  was  re- 
minded of  my  providential  friend,  A  few  days 
out,  and  we  spake  a  trader  from  Xew  York,  ob- 
taining some  fresh  provision  and  some  American 
papers.  The  weather  now,  besides  being  cold, 
Avas  also  specially  threatening,  and  even  more  so 
than  I  realized.  The  captain  was  manifestly  anx- 
ious. He  called  me  to  him  while  on  deck,  and  asked 
me  into  the  cabin  for  a  little  talk.  He  said  the 
prospects  were  too  favorable  for  a  furious  storm, 
aud  as  it  was  possible  that  we  might  be  cast  away 
he  wished  to  make  some  further  information  of 
me  a  matter  of  record.  Also,  he  had  something 
to  tell  me  of  my  friend  Mr.  Watson,  which,  for 
fear  of  possible  contingencies,  he  would  defer  no 
longer.  He  then  produced  a  package  containing 
a  well-filled  money-belt,  saying,  "Mr.  Watson 
wished  me  to  hand  this  to  you  at  the  end  of  the 
voyage."  He  placed  it  in  my  hands,  and  I  found 
it  quite  heavy.  At  the  same  time  he  offered  to 
keep  charge  of  it  if  I  desired.  Although  anxious 
to  make  an  examination  of  it,  I  desired  him  to  do 

14 


210  THE   LIGHT   OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

60,  and  returned  it  to  his  hand.  I  was  filled 
with  surprise  at  this  new  and  wholly  unexpected 
manifestation  from  Mr.  "Watson,  and  most  deeply 
regretted  that  I  had  no  knowledge  of  his  address, 
or  even  of  his  first  name.  To  Mr.  Thomson,  as 
well  as  to  mj'self,  Mr.  Watson  was  a  complete 
stranger.  Surely  God  had  cared  for  me  in  the 
midst  of  my  want  and  my  wickedness. 

We  now  had  a  long  siege  of  heavy  weather. 
The  wind  was  north-west,  and  it  bore  us  rain, 
snow,  and  sleet,  and  everything  soon  became  a 
sheet  of  ice.  Our  barometer  became  deranged, 
and  the  compass  would  not  work.  Of  course,  we 
lost  our  reckoning,  and  for  several  days,  in  the 
midst  of  this  trying  storm,  we  knew  not  where  we 
were.  After  the  subsidence  of  the  wind  a  dense 
fog  and  a  heavy  sea  succeeded,  amid  which  no 
man  could  live  on  deck.  The  man  at  the  wheel 
was  lashed  to  his  place,  and  the  crew  took  refuge 
in  the  rigging.  The  captain  was  both  anxious  and 
nervous,  and  scarcely  eat  anything  while  the  storm 
prevailed.  At  last,  however,  in  the  good  provi- 
dence of  God  the  sky  cleared,  the  storm  ceased, 
and  the  sea  became  tranquil  again.  A  few  days 
of  pleasant  sailing,  and  the  joyful  news  rang  out 
once  more  that  land  was  within  sight. 

At  Cape  Henry  we  were  boarded  by  a  pilot,  who 
took  charge  of  our  vessel  in  its  passage  up  the 


THE    HOMEWARD    VOYAGE.  211 

(Jhosapeake.  And  now  I  was  in  familiar  waters 
again.  I  naturally  recalled  my  experience  on  the 
old  oyster-craft,  and  felt  somewhat  at  home  in 
waters  which  I  had  plowed  before.  On  account 
of  a  dense  fog  on  arriving  at  the  mouth  of  the  Pa- 
tapsco  River,  we  cast  anchor  for  the  night.  During 
the  night  the  density  of  the  fog  greatly  increased, 
so  that  the  pilot  observed  that  from  the  dimness 
of  our  lights  we  could  not  easily  be  discerned. 
About  midnight  all  hands  were  aroused,  and  the 
pilot  informed  us  that  our  vessel  was  in  the  exact 
line  of  a  large  iron  steamer  that  plied  between 
IN'orfolk  and  Baltimore;  that  it  was  about  due,  and 
that  from  the  dense  fog  we  were  really  in  g7eat 
danger.  "We  must  either  remove  from  its  line,  in 
which  we  did  not  succeed,  or  apprise  the  steamer 
in  some  way  of  our  whereabouts.  A  half  hour 
or  so  elapsed,  when  we  heard  the  whistle  of  the 
advancing  steamer,  and  soon  the  not-distant  sound 
of  her  paddle-wheels.  Extra  lights  had  been 
placed  in  the  masts,  aiid  the  men  were  hallooing 
themselves  hoarse;  but  evidently,  from  the  di- 
rection of  the  steamer,  we  were  not  observed. 
T'inally  some  combustible  matter  was  set  on  fire 
on  the  deck,  the  flame  of  which  caught  the  eye  of 
the  wheelsman  on  the  steamer,  who  by  a  special 
effort  barely  cleared  us.  The  alarm  aboard  was 
very  great,  for  had  she  struck  us  we  could  not 


212  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER    DAYS. 

have  been  saved.  It  really  looked  as  though  we 
were  to  perish  at  the  very  doors  of  our  homes. 

All  went  well  next  day  until  we  were  within 
some  twelve  miles  of  Baltimore,  when  we  were 
stopped  once  more  by  floating  ice.  We  could 
now  neither  advance  nor  recede.  While  lying 
here  a  propeller,  loaded  with  powder  and  having 
on  board  a  number  of  army  ofhcers,  undertook  to 
go  up  the  narrow  channel  just  opened  by  the  ice- 
boat. The  Norfolk  steamer,  however,  was  coming 
down,  and  in  attempting  to  pass  the  propeller  was 
bulged,  and  her  stoves  upset.  The  crew  and  pas- 
sengers were  taken  oft'  by  the  steamer,  which 
passed  on  by  us  down  the  river.  But  the  propeller 
was  now  ablaze,  and  in  this  condition  floated  past 
us,  and  in  a  few  moments  sunk.  Luckily  the  pow- 
der had  not  been  reached  before  sinking ;  and,  for 
our  further  comfort  at  the  time,  we  did  not  appre- 
hend that  her  cargo  was  powder. 

The  third  day  the  ice  cleared,  and  we  were  taken 
by  the  tug-boat  to  the  city.  The  captain  and  oth- 
er oflicers  went  to  their  homes,  but  I  remained 
aboard  until  the  morning.  They  were  greeted  by 
their  loved  ones,  and  I  was  near  to  my  own  de- 
serted home;  but  whether  all  or  any  of  my  kin 
remained,  I  knew  not.  Were  the  dear  parents 
still  alive,  or  had  they  in  sorrow  gone  down  to 
the  grave?     I  should  soon  know ;  and  perhaps  the 


THE    HOMEWARD    VOYAGE.  213 

revelation  of  death  would  stand  against  me  in  my 
own  home.  How  much  of  sunshine  I  had  received 
within  that  home,  of  such  real  comfort,  of  such 
solid  bliss.  Whether  death  had  crossed  its  thresh- 
old or  not,  I  had  sent  many  shadows  athwart  it, 
and  had  tilled  with  gloom  its  every  room.  Deep- 
drawn  sighs  had  escaped  a  father's  breast,  and  a 
mother's  heart  had  been  but  little  more  than  a  tomb 
of  grief.  I  had  buried  myself,  while  yet  alive,  as 
one  dead  within  her  heart.  And  yet  I  knew,  with- 
out one  passing  doubt,  that  if  alive  that  mother 
could  and  would  forgive,  and  if  dead  she  would 
watch  and  guide  me  with  an  angel's  love.  How  I 
longed  ere  T  slept  to  lift  the  curtain  that  concealed 
my  home.  With  a  fervent  prayer  for  each  and  all 
of  them  I  sunk  into  the  unconsciousness  of  sleep, 
for  the  last  time  on  shipboard. 

The  morning  came  at  last,  and  therewith  the 
captain,  according  to  nis  word.  He  at  once  handed 
me  the  money-belt,  which  he  had  never  opened, 
and  I  counted  out  seventy  dollars  in  gold,  besides 
some  vsilver  pieces  for  pocket  use.  The  captain 
gave  me  a  new  belt,  and  securing  my  money  in 
this  I  placed  it  for  safety  around  my  body. 
Whether  this  money  came  from  Mr.  Watson's  own 
hands,  as  I  have  reason  to  believe  it  did,  probabh* 
I  shall  never  know.  It  could  not  have  come  from 
Sourbier,  as  he  only  owed  me  at  most  some  fifteen 


214  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER    DAYS. 

dollars.  To  Mr.  Watsou  I  give  the  credit,  what- 
ever its  source;  and  while  I  live  I  shall  bless  his 
name  as  that  of  a  most  gracious  and  wonderful 
benefactor.  The  captain  had  brought  his  carriage- 
with  him,  and  in  this  I  rode  with  him  to  the  depot. 
He  purchased  me  a  ticket  for  Philadelphia,  bought 
me  a  lunch,  and  saw  me  aboard  the  train.  Nor 
did  he  forget  the  cordial  good-by  and  the  generous 
blessing.  Captain  Thomson  had  well  done  his 
part,  and  next  to  Mr.  Watson  I  felt  that  he  was 
my  greatest  benefactor.  I  think  he  gave  me  a  free- 
passage  on  his  vessel,  and  provided  for  me  while 
thereon  from  his  own  bounty  gratuitously.  This 
was  certainly  very  much,  and  yet  all  was  exceeded 
by  his  extreme  kindness  and  fatherly  care.  While- 
life  lasts  the  memory  of  Captain  Thomson,  of  Bal- 
timore, will  be  fresh  in  my  heart;  and  from  my 
heart  I  shall  beseech  the  good  Father  to  reward 
him  well. 


HOME   AGAIN.  215 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

HOME    AGAIN. 

I  had  now  escaped  the  sea  aud  its  dangers ;  and, 
flying  on  the  swifter  wings  of  steam,  I  felt  a  won- 
derful security.  We  were  detained  at  Havre  de 
Grace  ferry  several  hours,  however,  by  the  ice 
blockade,  and  did  not  reach  Philadelphia  until 
midnight.  "With  difficulty  I  arranged  for  trans- 
ference to  the  Episcopal  Hospital,  four  miles  away, 
but  finally  made  the  necessary  arrangement,  and 
was  soon  again  at  the  old  refuge  where  years  be- 
fore I  had  found  shelter  and  protection  with  kind- 
ness and  love.  The  same  old  nurse  received  me ; 
and  although  it  was  long  before  day,  yet  the  super- 
intendent, Mr.  Knight,  from  whoni  many  kind- 
nesses had  come  in  my  former  stay,  was  called  up. 
He  greeted  me  kindly,  but  showed  great  surprise. 
I  counted  my  money  into  his  hands  for  safe  keep- 
ing; and  after  a  bath  I  retired  for  rest. 

The  next  day  many  old  friends  yet  in  the  hos- 
pital called  at  my  room  and  greeted  me  with  great 
kindness.     I  was  grateful  for  these  demonstrations 


216  THE   LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

of  friendship,  and  yet  felt  that  there  was  an  aching 
void  which  friends  not  of  my  own  blood  could  not 
fill.  I  wanted  to  hear  from  home.  It  was  but  an 
hour's  ride  by  steam  to  my  old  home,  now  at 
Doylestown,  and  my  heart  yearned  to  know  that 
it  was  well  with  them.  Mr.  Knight  called  early 
in  the  forenoon,  and  to  him  I  related  my  storj^  as 
it  was.  He  expressed  much  astonishment,  but 
kindly  volunteered  to  write  to  my  father  at  once 
Returning  in  a  few  moments  to  my  bed-side, — for 
I  was  unable  to  arise,  from  the  excitement  of  the 
occasion, — he  wrote  as  follows: 

"Mr.  Smith  : 

'■'■Dear  Sir — Your  son  Andrew  is  again 
with  us.  He  is  suffering  with  the  old  trouble. 
"Will  you  come  immediately?" 

My  reflections  during  the  da}^  were  of  a  most 
serious  nature.  I  wondered  if  my  folks  were  in- 
deed alive,  and  full  of  the  old,  deep  love  for  me. 
And  could  they  receive  me  again  as  their  own  son 
to  their  home  and  their  hearts?  This  was  even 
more  than  I  had  a  right  to  ask ;  but  I  knew  full 
well,  from  the  great  depth  of  their  love,  that  I 
might  with  confidence  expect  all  of  this.  I  had 
left  a  home  of  sunshine  and  comfort,  and  wander- 
ed forth  in  quest  of  honor  and  happiness,  which 
fictitious  writings  had  painted  as  the  ideal  of  my 
fancy,  and  as  a  possible  realization.      Not  for  a 


HOME   AGAIN.  217 

thousand  worlds  would  I  trace  the  way  again.  I 
had  gone  by  a  rugged  road,  had  suflered  much, 
and  yet  had  by  a  loving  God  been  safel}^  led. 
Surely  the  life  saved  by  God  belonged  to  him,  and 
to  him  I  felt  determined  it  should  be  given. 

The  day  was  spent  as  pleasantly  as  my  own  anx- 
iety and  the  general  circumstances  would  admit. 
The  physicians  of  the  establishment,  Dr.  ^lorris 
and  his  colleague,  made  a  careful  examination  of 
my  eyes,  and  after  consultation  gave  me  their  can- 
did and  generous  advice.  In  view  of  the  fact  that 
the  disease  of  my  eyes  would  ultimately  destroy 
them,  they  thought  it  best  that  I  begin  to  prepare 
myself  for  this  event  by  learning  the  lessons  which 
one  who  is  blind  would  need  to  understand  for  his 
own  happiness  and  efficiency.  Yrith  the  little 
sight  I  had,  I  could  greatly  aid  myself  in  these  ac- 
quisitions, and,  by  the  sj'stem  of  instruction  I 
would  follow,  measurably  prepare  myself  for  an 
event  which  could  not  at  best  be  greatly  delayed. 
From  their  connection  with  the  Pennsylvania  In- 
stitution for  the  Instruction  of  the  Blind,  they 
would  do  what  they  could,  if  I  would  consent,  to  se- 
cure me  admission  therein.  Xot  only  would  they  ap- 
ply for  me,  but  they  would  see  that  the  necessary  pa- 
pers were  made  out,  and  would  also  write  my  parents 
a  letter  of  explanation  and  counsel.  This  was  exceed- 
ingly kind  of  them,  and  I  am  sure  I  felt  very  grateful 


218  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

for  the  interest  taken  and  the  kindness  expressed 
by  the  noble  gentlemen.  Had  I  made  application 
for  admittance,  and  followed  the  usual  course,  I 
might  have  waited  months  before  I  could  have 
gained  admission.  The  institution  could  accom- 
modate only  a  limited  number,  and  was  then  full. 
In  1875  there  were  within  the  state  lifty-one  per- 
sons who  had  made  formal  application  for  admis- 
sion, and  were  waiting  for  their  regular  turns.  At 
the  time  of  my  entrance  many  were  impatiently 
waiting.  During  the  day,  several  ladies  of  the 
hospital  who  ministered  in  spiritual  as  well  as 
material  ways  called  at  my  room  and  read  to  me 
from  the  Word,  and  offered  fervent  prayers  in  my 
behalf.  These  prayers,  while  they  consoled,  also 
lifted  largely  the  veil  from  my  own  heart,  and  pain- 
fully exposed  to  my  view  my  many  deep  and 
angry  sins.  Their  sympathetic  appeals  for  my 
anxious  mother,  and  their  mention  of  her  deep, 
und3'ing  love  for  her  dependent  and  wayward  boy, 
were  well  calculated  to  touch  the  heart  of  the 
prodigal  son  that  I  w^as. 

The  day  passed  away,  and  therewith  came  no 
tidings  from  home.  The  shadows  of  the  evening 
gathered  about  my  bed  again,  and  amid  my  anx- 
ious wonderings  regarding  home  and  home  friends 
I  fell  into  a  deep  and  refreshing  sleep.  With  the 
return  of  day  I  felt  much  better,  and  was  able  to 


HOME    AGAIN.  2 ID 

eat  heartily  and  to  dress.  While  reclining  upon 
my  bed  about  9:00  A.  m.  I  heard  quick  footsteps 
in  the  hall,  and  turning  my  eyes  I  saw  Mr.  Knight 
and  my  own  father  approaching  my  bed.  Nearly 
two  years  had  passed  since  I  had  seen  my  father's 
face  for  the  last  time  at  the  street-corner  in  Phila- 
delphia; but  now  the  same  dear  man  was  before 
me  again.  He  approached  my  bed,  grasped  my 
hand,  and,  convulsed  with  emotion,  cried,  "My  boy, 
my  boy."  Nothing  more  could  he  say,  and  noth- 
ing whatever  did  I  say.  He  held  my  hand;  and 
I  could  but  hang  my  head,  with  a  heart  breaking 
with  sorrow.  I  could  think  of  little  more  than 
my  guilt ;  and  this  seemed  like  a  mountain  that 
forbade  my  approach  to  my  father.  This,  thought 
I,  must  first  of  all  be  removed;  [and  how  to  compass 
this  end  I  hardly  knew.  My  soul  prompted  me 
to  confess  ray  great  sin  and  plead  his  forgiveness ; 
but  I  did  not  yield  to  this  better  persuasion.  I 
asked  Mr.  Knight  for  my  belt,  and  I  poured  my 
gold  into  my  father's  hands.  I  felt  somehow  that 
this  might  be  accepted  by  him  as  an  atoning  ofier- 
iiig.  This  action  seemed  to  break  the  spell  of 
silence,  and  we  entered  into  a  brief  conversation, 
covering  my  wanderings  and  my  final  arrival  in 
Philadelphia.  I  wanted  to  inquire  of  my  mother, 
sisters,  and  brother,  but  feared  to  do  so,  lest  my 
father  might  say  of  one  or  all  that  they  were  dead. 


220  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

To  my  relief,  Mr.  Knight  inquired  after  the  health 
of  the  family,  when  my  father  said,  "All  but 
"Willie  are  well;  he  is  poorly."  This  gave  me 
wonderful  relief.  My  dear  mother,  then,  was  alive, 
and  death  had  not  crossed  the  threshold  of  my 
father's  home  during  my  absence.  How,  in  silence, 
I  thanked  God  for  these  glad  and  blessed  tidings; 
for  though  I  could  cruelly  leave  them,  yet  in  my 
heart  I  loved  them  fervently,  and  would  have  died 
for  the  defense  of  either. 

My  father  had  brought  a  carriage  to  the  door, 
and,  preceded  by  my  chest,  I  descended  to  it.  I 
was  made  comfortable,  and  soon  we  were  on  our 
drive  for  the  depot.  I  naturally  expected  that  with 
■every  word  my  father  would  mention  my  conduct, 
and  speak  words  of  justly-deserved  reproof.  In 
the  thought  and  expectation  of  this  I  was  inclined 
to  sa}'  very  little.  But  no  word  of  reproof  came 
from  him.  Every  act  was  an  act  of  love  looking 
to  my  comfort,  and  every  word  was  the  embodi- 
ment of  real  aifection.  No  correction  and  no  re- 
proof made  me  feel  a  deeper  sense  of  guilt.  I 
saw  the  deep  goodness  of  the  man  against  whom 
I  Iiad  so  grossly  sinned. 

Once  at  the  depot,  a  brief  time  was  spent  in  wait- 
ing for  the  train ;  and  several  old  friends  advanced 
and  spoke  with  us.  To  all  of  these  my  father, 
with  deep  emotion  and    choked   utterance,  said, 


HOME   AGAIN.  221 

"  My  boy  has  come  back ;  I  have  found  my  son." 
Of  course  my  singular  disappearance  and  long  con- 
tinued absence  was  a  matter  of  knowledge  to  a 
great  many,  and  on  all  hands  old  friends  had  sym- 
pathized with  the  sorrows  of  my  parents.  Though 
they  knew  not  where  I  was,  yet  they  had  not  given 
me  up,  and  hoped  and  looked  continually  for  my 
return.  The  letter  from  Mr.  Knight  had  but  an- 
swered the  daily  hope  and  confident  expectation 
of  their  hearts.  "He  will  come  back  again,"  was 
the  ever-recurring  protest,  and  the  constant  con- 
viction of  my  mother. 

The  train  in  readiness,  we  were  soon  seated  and 
ready  for  our  departure  to  Doylestown.  An  hour's 
ride,  and  I  stood  once  more  on  the  old  depot  plat- 
form, and  within  forty  rods  of  the  beating,  anxious- 
heart  of  my  own  dear  mother.  Dear  WiMie  was 
at  the  depot,  and  the  first  to  meet  me  with  his 
warm,  sweet  kiss.  The  dear  boy  looked  quite  pale 
and  feeble ;  and  it  seemed  as  though  his  hold  on 
this  life  was  by  a  slender  and  brittle  thread.  Ten 
summers  had  passed  over  him  on  earth,  and  he 
had  greatly  changed  since  I  saw  him  last.  We 
walked  in  almost  unbroken  silence  across  the  field 
to  our  home.  I  cared  not  to  sa}"  much,  and  my 
father  was  inclined  not  to  talk.  I  was  wondering 
howl  could  meet  my  dear,  dear  mother;  how  I 
could  ever  again  look  into  that  face  of  love.     I  felt 


222  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS 

that  it  would  smite  me  for  my  guilt  by  telliug  me 
of  a  heart  which  I  had  broken  by  my  own  cruel 
sins.  As  we  walked  in  silence,  I  painfully  glanced 
toward  my  father,  whose  long  white  locks  now 
seemed  grayer  than  ever.  His  head  was  bowed, 
and  it  seemed  to  me  that  with  his  every  step  he 
was  engaged  in  prayer  for  me,  his  wayward  son, 
and  for  the  w^ife  and  mother  whose  heart  was  ach- 
ing for  my  coming.  As  we  walked  side  by  side  I 
felt  that  w^e  presented  a  true  tableau  of  real  grief 
and  genuine  sorrow.  There  was  joy,  but  it  was 
of  that  kind  whose  exterior  is  deeply  shaded.  For 
some  reason,  our  approach  toward  the  house  had 
not  been  observed  by  the  inmates ;  and  I  stood  in 
the  sitting-room  before  my  mother's  eye  rested  up- 
on me.  She  pressed  me  to  her  heart  amid  tears 
and  sobs,  and  for  several  minutes  the  silence  was 
that  of  death,  broken  only  by  convulsive  sobs  from 
all.  At  length,  chiding  herself,  she  began  to  take 
off  my  wrappings,  amid  kisses,  caresses,  and  fre- 
quent ejaculations  of,  "Oh,  I  am  so  glad  you  have 
come."  She  took  me  to  the  lounge,  and  once  more 
my  head  was  resting  on  my  mother's  pillow,  as  in 
the  happier  days  of  my  early  life.  And  now,  as 
if  recalling  the  note  of  Mr.  Knight,  she  almost 
frantically  exclaimed,  "My  boy,  are  you  blind? 
Are  you  really  blind?"  From  the  nature  of  the 
note,   she  got   the  impression   that  I   could   not 


HOME    AGAIX.  223 

see,  or  at  most  scarcely  see.  I  assured  her  that 
for  aught  I  knew  my  eyes  were  as  good  as  when  I 
left  home.  With  this  comforting  assurance,  she 
left  my  side  and  resumed  her  preparations  for 
dinner.  The  dear  sisters  and  Willie  were  very  de- 
voted, and  offered  a  thousand  tokens  of  their  fer- 
vent love,  anticipating  every  want  and  meeting 
every  desire  with  much  love. 

Soon  the  express-wagon  drove  up  to  the  door, 
and  two  men  came  into  the  room  bearing  my  chest. 
At  the  sight  of  this  my  mother  exclaimed,  "  Thank 
God,  my  dream  is  literally  fulfilled."  It  seems 
that  a  few  evenings  before  she  had  dreamed  of 
my  return,  and  that  following  me  two  men  bore 
a  chest  into  the  house.  The  actual  scene  was  an 
exact  copy  of  the  dream,  even  to  the  appearance 
of  the  chest  and  its  bearers.  Personally,  I  enter- 
tain great  confidence  in  this  particular  method  of 
God's  guidance.  Of  course,  the  great  bulk  of 
dreams  have  no  reference  to  the  realm  of  one's  fu- 
ture. "  Your  old  men  shall  dream  dreams,  and 
your  young  men  shall  see  visions,"  has  ever  been 
an  occasional  order  of  Providence,  as  has  been  il- 
lustrated in  the  experience  of  Jacob,  Joseph,  Dan- 
iel, Peter,  and  others  of  Bible  times;  and  the 
prophecy  of  Joel  leads  to  the  hope  that  in  modern 
times  these  methods  shall  have  more  general  favor 
with  God.     Many  ministers  of  modern  times,  and 


224  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER    DAYS. 

many  other  pious  people,  have  been  led  and  com- 
forted by  dreams,  which,  as  they  felt  sure,  have 
had  literal  fulfillment,  as  had  this  of  my  mother. 
"We  think  we  might  present  an  interesting  argu- 
ment bearing  upon  this  question  did  it  not  seem  to 
us  out  of  place. 

The  chest  was  now  unpacked,  and  my  wardrobe 
displaj'ed,  which  greatl}'  astonished  my  mother. 
My  father  now  placed  my  belt  of  money  in  my 
hands,  which  I  at  once  poured  into  the  lap  of  my 
mother.  This,  too,  astonished  her,  and  she  ex- 
claimed, "  This,  indeed,  is  a  God-send  to  us."  Dur- 
ing much  of  ray  absence  my  father  had  been  in 
poor  health,  and  was  thus  unable  to  earn  much 
beyond  a  bare  and  plain  support  for  his  family. 
Their  circumstances  were  therefore  of  the  humblest 
kind :  and  besides,  from  continued  sickness  and 
pressing  wants,  they  had  got  somewhat  behind 
with  their  accounts.  It  pleased  me  that  this  gave 
them  joy ;  and  it  lifted  somewhat  the  deep  weight 
of  my  guilt.  At  the  dinner-table  I  found  every 
little  comfort  that  a  dear  mother,  from  a  somewhat 
scanty  larder,  could  provide ;  and  as  with  the  family 
I  gathered  at  the  board  I  felt  ready  for  the  prayer 
of  thanksgiving.  It  was  a  feast  fitting  for  one 
more  worthy  than  a  returning  prodigal.  However, 
my  heart  was  too  full  as  yet  to  eat  largely,  and  my 
sense  of  guilt  too  great  to  admit  of  perfect  ease* 


HOME    AGAIN  225 

Mj  coming  brought  so  much  joy  that  I  could  now 
8ee  the  immeasurable  grief  my  willful  and  wicked 
absence  had  caused.  I  wrjited  to  confess  myself 
a  great  sinner  at  once ;  and  had  I  done  so  the 
word  of  free  and  full  forgiveness  would  have  been 
spoken,  and  I  should  have  had  great  relief.  But 
for  some  reason  I  did  not  get  courage  to  do  so. 

My  parents,  of  course,  had  been  exceedingly 
anxious,  having  had,  as  already  intimated,  no  infor- 
mation of  my  whereabouts  or  continued  existence 
on  earth.  The}^  would  have  had  some  relief  if  they 
had  received  the  letter  I  placed  in  Mr.  Clark's 
hand  in  Boston;  but  neither  this  nor  any  other 
word  had  ever  reached  them.  From  the  moment 
I  left  Boston,  as  the  reader  will  see,  I  was  cut  oft" 
from  every  communication  with  my  folks.  Many 
a  time  I  would  have  written  to  them  had  the  op- 
portunity offered.  Several  days  passed  before  the 
story  of  my  adventures  had  been  fully  told  to  my 
interested  and  astonished  listeners.  A  thousand 
questions  were  asked,  and  as  many  expressions  of 
sympathy  were  bestowed.  I  began  to  feel  myself 
the  hero  of  a  strange  tale.  It  seemed  impossible 
to  me  that  I  had  passed  so  strange  a  life  and  en- 
dured and  seen  so  much.  My  account  of  Mr. 
Clark  and  Captain  Sourbier  drew  from  my  parents 
earnest  expressions  of  indignation,  while  for  Mr. 
"Watson  and  Captain  Thomson  warmest  commea* 

15 


226  THE   LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

dations  and  grateful  blessings  escaped  them.  I 
wish  that  in  that  hour  these  benefactors  could  have 
received  the  blessings  of  my  parents,  or  even  those 
of  my  sisters  and  brother.  I  think  they  would 
have  felt  sure  that  their  love  and  devotion  were 
not  in  vain,  while  the  dear  sisters  of  charity,  of  Rio 
Janeiro  would  have  been  loaded  with  benedictions 
could  they  have  been  reached  with  words.  Many 
old  friends  called  to  see  me,  to  whom  my  strange 
adventures  had  to  be  recounted,  but  ever  with  the 
members  of  my^own  family  as  interested  listeners. 
Dear  Willie  ever  clung  to  my  side,  and  read  again 
and  again  the  story  from  my  lips 

Meantime  a  letter  came  from  Dr.  Morris,  of 
Philadelphia,  containing  blanks  for  my  signature, 
preparatory  to  admission  to  the  institution  for  the 
blind,  and  full  explanations,  etc.,  for  my  parents. 
I  had  told  ni}'  folks  nothing  of  my  intended  plan, 
and  therefore  the  letter  was  a  great  surprise  to 
them.  They  said  nothing  to  me  about  it,  but  re- 
plied that  for  the  present  they  could  not  spare  me 
from  home,  and  should  do  everything  possible  for 
my  comfort,  ^'eantime  I  was  wondering  why  I 
heard  nothing  from  tlie  doctors,  and  had  almost 
concluded  that  their  app?al  in  my  behalf  had  fail- 
ed. But  now  another  letter  came,  more  urgent 
than  the  first,  and  I  was  consulted  upon  the  matter. 
My  folks  so  remonstrated  that  it  was  concluded  to 


HOME   AGAIN.  227 

<lefer  the  entrance  to  the  institution  for  a  time  at 
least. 

Some  six  weeks  had  elapsed,  when  one  da}',  all 
of  a  sudden,  I  was  taken  with  excrutiating  pain  in 
my  eyes.  I  was  at  once  placed  under  the  care  of 
a  physician,  who  directed  me  to  be  placed  in  a 
rooni  perfectly  darkened.  The  light  was  excluded 
by  heavy  blankets,  both  from  doors  and  windows, 
so  that  nothing  could  be  seen  within.  This  condi- 
tion continued  some  four  weeks,  during  which 
time  my  mother  scarcel}'  left  my  side  by  day  or 
night;  and  most  of  the  time  my  father  was  also 
present  with  me.  ISTever  did  a  child  have  more 
faithful  care  or  more  devoted  attention.  How  for- 
tunate for  me  that  I  had  arrived  at  home,  and  to 
my  mother's  arms.  On  shipboard  I  must  have 
suffered  more,  and  doubtless  have  died.  But  God 
had  spared  me  the  afiliction  until  I  was  prepared 
for  it.  Oh,  that  then  I  might  have  more  fully  ap- 
preciated the  fact. 

Dr.  Andrews,  the  pastor  of  the  famil}'  church, 
often  called;  but  for  some  reason  I  ever  felt  as 
though  there  was  a  chasm  between  us,  over  which 
he  could  not  pass  to  reach  me.  Possibly  he  was 
too  formal  in  his  approach;  and  perhaps  I  was  too 
far  away  in  sin  and  guilt.  Still,  I  was  full  of  good 
•resolutions,  deeply  penitent,  and  indeed  almost 
persuaded  to  surrender  myself  fully.     But  almost, 


228  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS 

however,  was  all,  and  not  enough.  God  was  rais 
ing  me  up,  and  gradually  I  would  recede  from  hi& 
fervent,  aft'ectionate  hold.  My  recovery  was  slow; 
and  little  by  little  the  pain  diminished  and  the 
light,  as  I  could  bear  it,  was  admitted.  Finally 
the  blankets  were  removed  from  the  windows,  and 
at  last  I  could  see  God's  eartb  again,  and  be  taken 
to  another  room.  Friends  began  to  call  and  gave 
their  hand  and  word  of  cheer,  and  I  felt  that  I  wa& 
coming  back  once  more  into  the  light  of  life.  My 
sight  was  somewhat  impaired ;  but  after  a  time  I 
could  get  about  nearly  as  well  as  usual. 

It  was  now  determined,  however,  that  I  must  go 
to  the  institution  for  the  blind,  and  that  the  sooner 
I  went  the  better  it  might  prove  for  me.  Prepar- 
atory to  my  leaving,  I  went  on  a  visit  to  an  aunt, 
which  I  enjoyed  much;  and  then,  on  my  return, 
preparations  for  my  departure  began.  My  moth- 
er's heart  was  evidently  heavy,  and  many  a  sigh 
escaped  her  as  she  proceeded  with  my  preparation. 
I  also  was  loath  to  leave  home;  I  now  began  to 
think  it  the  dearest  spot  on  earth.  I  felt  that  now 
I  could  remain  at  home  forever,  and  be  content 
with  a  father's  counsel  and  a  mother's  love.  Duty 
to  myself  and  my  friends,  however,  prompted  me 
to  take  this  step  without  delay.  I  should  not  be 
far  away,  and  an}'^  day  the  home  friends  could 
come  to  me  or  I  could  go  to  them. 


AMONG  THE   BLIND.  229 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

AMONG   THE    BLIND. 

Having  finally  arrived  with  my  father  at  the 
institution,  I  naturally  recalled  the  inquiry  regard- 
ing it  which  I  had  addressed  to  Mr.  Gratz,  and 
also  my  own  forebodings  at  the  time.  Surely, 
thought  I,  my  own  fears  are  being  realized  at  last. 
As  we  ascended  the  steps,  sounds  of  music  fell  on 
the  ear,  and  merr}'  voices  were  heard  from  many 
lips  within.  It  seemed  like  a  home  of  life  and 
happiness  as  well.  This  by  no  means  comported 
with  my  ideas  of  blindness.  Still,  the  merry  voices 
that  I  heard,  as  I  imagined,  were  those  of  young 
men  and  maidens  whose  eyes  had  already  been 
sealed  in  the  deep,  dark  gloom  of  unending  night, 
and  the  music  was  from  those  fingers  which  could 
not  be  guided  with  waking  eyes.  We  entered  the 
parlor,  and  were  received  kindly  by  the  prefect, 
Mr.  Charles  Burns;  and  in  a  few  minutes  later 
the  principal,  Mr.  William  Chapin,  came  in  and 
welcomed  us.  He  gave  us  a  brief,  general  history 
<of  the  institution,  and  assured  my  father  that  his 


230  THE   LIGHT   OP   OTHER   DATS. 

son  should  have  every  needed  attention,  and  that 
if  circumstances  required  he  would  be  called  to  the 
city  instantly.  My  father  seemed  both  relieved 
and  pleased;  and  arising  to  go,  he  promised  to 
come  to  me  at  call  if  needed.  Commending  me 
to  God,  he  bid  me  a  tender  good-by,  and  I  was 
alone  again,  so  far  as  my  family  friends  were  con- 
cerned. 

I  now  entered  the  public  office,  where  I  met  the 
other  officers  and  teachers  of  the  institution,  all  of 
whom  greeted  and  welcomed  me  with  great  kind- 
ness. In  their  appearance  and  general  manner 
they  commended  themselves  to  me  on  sight;  and 
I  felt  that  I  ought  to  and  could  easily  feel  at  home 
among  persons  of  such  genial,  kindly  spirit  and 
presence.  While  sitting  here  the  dinner-bell  rang,, 
and  I  was  escorted  to  the  dining-room.  The  rush 
of  the  students,  coupled  with  their  general  hilarity,, 
surprised  me,  especially  when  I  recalled  the  fact,, 
which  was  barely  perceptible  in  their  movements, 
that  nearly  every  one  of  the  two  hundred  were 
stone-blind.  The  dining-room  I  found  to  be  divid- 
ed into  two  compartments  by  a  partial  partition,, 
covering  the  sides  but  not  the  center  of  the  room. 
One  of  these  was  for  the  gentlemen,  and  the  other 
for  the  ladies.  This  central  station  was  usually 
occupied  by  either  the  principal  or  some  teacher ; 
and  during  the  dinner  hour  the  news  of  the  day 


AMONG   THE   BLIND.  231 

was  read  aloud,  and  comments  of  an  instructive  and 
explanatory  nature  were  made  for  the  benefit  of 
the  students.  This  was  very  edifying  to  me,  and 
did  very  much  to  reconcile  me  to  my  new  heme. 

We  were  well  waited  upon ,  and  the  dinner 
served,  though  plain,  was  substantial  and  relisha- 
ble.  There  were  a  number  of  tables  in  the  room, 
each  accommodating  some  ten  or  fifteen  persons. 
At  my  table  all  were  blind  but  myself;  and  though 
my  presence  in  the  institution  was  already  known, 
it  was  not  known  to  my  companions  at  the  table 
that  I  was  present  with  them.  The  conversation 
in  part  turned  upon  me,  as  it  happened,  and  was 
somewhat  amusing.  "  I  say.  Bill,"  said  one,  "  did 
you  know  that  we  had  a  new  student."  "Yes,  I 
have  just  heard  so,"  was  the  reply.  "Have  you 
seen  him  yet?  Is  he  black  or  white?"  etc.  One 
or  two  colored  students  had  been  admitted  to  the 
work-departments  of  late,  and  the  feeling  of  the 
students  was  rather  severe  against  them.  Preju- 
dice is  often  most  determined  among  those  who 
are  themselves' most  unfortunate.  It  woul(l  seem 
only  natural  that  a  blind  man  should  give  himself 
little  concern  over  the  color  of  a  man's  skin ;  yet, 
to  my  surprise,  I  found  wonderful  sensitiveness 
here  on  that  and  other  points  of  difference. 

After  dinner  a  young  Mr.  Schoolman,  who  was 
born  blind,  and  was  now  well  acquainted  with  the 


232  THE   LIGHT   OF   OTHER  DAYS. 

varied  departments  of  the  iustitution,  took  me  in 
charge.  J^early  blind,  I  found  m3'Self  intrusted 
to  the  guidance  of  one  wholly  blind.  The  bhnd 
was  literally  being  led  by  the  blind;  and  yet  there 
was  no  danger  of  the  ditch  in  this  case  if  I  fol- 
lowed him  closely.  He  seemed  as  familiar  with 
every  part  of  the  building,  and  every  step  leading 
to  the  departments  thereof,  as  I  with  my  own  room 
or  my  own  trunk.  He  also  introduced  me  to  the 
different  students,  every  one  of  whom  he  instantl}^ 
recognized,  often  by  their  step;  and  all  of  them 
he  knew  by  name.  The  different  work-depart- 
ments were  iirst  visited, — the  broom  and  brush 
shops,  and  the  carpet  and  matting  rooms, — the 
work  of  which  was  briefly  and  interestingly  ex- 
plained. Here  the  material  was  all  received  in  the 
rough,  and  yet  prepared  with  little  trouble  and 
worked  up  with  ease  and  real  skill.  The  natural- 
ness and  ease  of  the  motions  of  these  men  suprised 
me.  I  began  to  think  really  that  sight  could  be 
dispensed  with  after  all ;  and  yet  it  was  evident 
withal  that  if  one  could  not  see  for  himself,  an- 
other must  see  for  him.  Only  within  a  narrow 
scope  and  the  most  familiar  walks  could  a  blind 
man  do  or  go.  But  if  the  blind  are  dependent  on 
others  for  sight,  so  too  are  we  all  dependent  on  our 
companions  in  a  great  variety  of  ways.  No  man  can 
wholly  guide  himself,   while  we  need  that  God 


AMONG   THE   BLI^D.  233 

should  guide  us  all.  l^ot  more  willing,  neither,  is 
that  one  whose  heart  is  full  of  love  to  guide  his 
most  beloved  fellow  than  is  God  to  guide  each  and 
every  child  of  Adam.  "  By  his  counsel  he  will  lead 
us  [if  we  will,  even  through  life]  and  afterward  re- 
ceive us  to  glory." 

We  also  visited  some  of  the  departments  of 
work  on  the  ladies'  side  of  the  institution,  and  saw 
them  engaged  in  bead-work,  knitting,  crochet- 
work,  and  sewing.  It  did  seem  as  though  their 
fingers,  in  their  nimble  movements,  must  be  guid- 
ed by  eyes  that  could  see.  But  no;  they  were 
wholly  blind.  Touch  answered  for  sight,  and  well 
did  it  seem  to  serve  them  as  a  substitute.  From 
the  work-shops  we  visited  some  of  the  classes  in 
their  recitations,  which  seemed  to  me  both  simple 
and  interesting.  We  then  repaired  to  the  some- 
what spacious  and  really  beautiful  grounds  of  the 
institution.  These,  though  seemingly  arranged  for 
the  eye  of  sight,  were  nevertheless  intensely  en- 
joyed by  the  blind,  whose  love  of  beaut}-,  and  even 
of  flowers  in  their  fragance  and  fashion,  can  scarcely 
be  exceeded  in  those  whose  sight  is  in  ripest  per- 
fection and  power.  From  the  grounds  I  was  led 
to  my  room,  where,  while  making  a  general  survey, 
I  was  glad  to  rest  for  a  time.  In  this  room  I  found 
eiglit  single  beds,  conveniently  and  tidily  arranged. 
Of  the  eight  occupants,  none  could  see  but  myself, 


234  THE    LIGHT   OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

and  yet  no  one  of  them  needed  help  from  me.  If 
anything,  I  was  the  most  dependent  one  of  all. 
Two  wardrobes  were  arranged  conveniently  in 
either  end  of  the  room,  each  answering  for  two 
students. 

At  eight  o'clock  we  were  called  into  Exhibition 
Hall,  where  the  evening  and  morning  worship  was 
celebrated.  This  consisted  of  prayer,  reading,  and 
singing ;  and  every  student  was  expected  to  be 
present  if  possible.  Difierent  officers  or  teachers 
led  in  this  deeply  solemn  and  interesting  service. 

A  few  general  words  here  regarding  the  institu- 
tion and  the  blind  of  Pennsylvania  and  the  country 
generally  may  not  be  out  of  place,"  nor  devoid  of 
interest  to  the  reader.  Its  location  is  at  the  corner 
of  Race  and  Twentieth  streets,  and,  including  the 
grounds,  occupies  one  fourth  of  the  entire  square. 
"Where  the  pupil  is  able  to  pay  for  his  accommoda- 
tions and  instruction,  there  is  a  charge  made  of 
$300  per  year;  but  in  my  case  all  was  a  gratuity 
from  the  state,  which  with  profoundest  gratitude 
I  acknowledge. 

On  each  Wednesday  afternoon  the  institution  is 
open  to  visitors,  and  an  entertainment  is  given  by 
the  students  in  consideration  of  a  small  fee.  This 
yields  to  the  managers  a  fund  which  is  used  in  fur- 
nishing an  outfit  for  the  students  when  they  leave. 
At  the  time  of  my  entrance  there  were  two  hun- 


AMONG    THE    BLIND.  235- 

dred  students,  which  was  about  the  full  accommo- 
datiou  of  the  buildings.  The  school  year  continues 
ten  months,  giving  the  heated  term  of  July  and 
August  for  vacation,  with  another  brief  respite 
covering  the  midwinter  holidays.  There  is,  besides, 
a  permanent  home  connected  with  the  institution, 
where  accommodation  is  furnished  to  some  fifteen 
students.  The  endowment  admits  of  no  further 
benevolence  in  this  direction  at  present,  although 
a  charity  of  such  real  advantage  deserves  and 
doubtless  will  before  long  receive  a  much  more 
liberal  provision  from  either  the  state  or  the  be- 
nevolent. 

Applicants  are  registered  for  admission,  and 
have  to  await  their  regular  time.  In  1875  there 
were  fifty-one  persons  waiting  for  admittance,  while 
the  institution  was  really  more  than  full,  207  being 
enrolled.  There  were  fifteen  in  the  home,  two  of 
whom  were  from  China,  one  from  New  Jersey,  and 
the  balance  from  Pennsylvania.  The  course  of 
instruction  consisted  of  spelling,  reading,  writings 
pin-type  printing, — by  means  of  which  correspond- 
ence could  be  carried  on  between  two  blind  per- 
sons without  outside  intervention, — arithmetic, — 
mental  and  slate, — geography,  maps,  etymology^ 
grammar,  dictionary,  rhetoric,  history,  natural  his- 
tory, elocution,  English  and  American  literature, 
physiology,  astronomy,  physics,  chemistry,  logie^ 


236  THE   LIGHT    OF   OTHER   DAYS. 

coustitution  of  the  United  States,  mensuration, 
algebra,  geometry,  Latin,  and  calisthenics.  Be- 
sides, instruction  was  also  given  in  some  handicraft, 
hy  which,  if  necessary,  a  livelihood  might  be  cb- 
t. lined  in  after  years.  Generally,  too,  from  one  to 
two  hours  per  day  of  manual  labor  were  given. 
The  library  of  the  institution  was  also  quite  com- 
|>lete  in  its  line;  and  to  the  more  advanced  it  af- 
foi'ded  greatest  gratification.  This  library  consist- 
ed of  history,  natural  history,  poetry,  selections, 
fables,  etc. 

By  the  report  of  1875  it  is  shown  that  26,739 
brushes  of  various  forms  and  30,955  brooms  were 
made  by  the  male  inmates  of  the  institution  during 
the  year,  and  by  the  female  inmates  1,958  pieces 
of  sewing,  knitting,  and  bead-work,  of  a  total 
valuation  of  ^15,773.  The  most  of  these  goods 
were  readily  sold  at  the  institution,  or  at  their 
Eio^hth-Street  store. 

In  1833,  forty-five  years  ago,  there  were  but  three 
institutions  for  tlie  education  of  the  blind  in  the 
United  States,  while  in  1876  there  were  twen- 
ty-seven in  all.  This  is  a  wonderful  growth,  and 
speaks  volumes  for  the  sympathy  and  philanthropy 
of  our  noble  nation.  l!^early  every  state  has  pro- 
vided for  its  blind,  either  at  home  in  institutions 
of  it  own,  or  abroad  in  those  of  others.  The  fol- 
lowing American  states  have  institutions  for  the 


AMONG   THE   BLIND.  237 

blind,  according  to  the  census  of  1870 :  Alabama, 
Arkansas,  California,  Georgia,  Illinois,  Indiana^ 
Iowa,  Kansas,  Kentucky,  Louisiana,  Maryland,^ 
Massachusetts,  Michigan,  Minnesota,  Mississippi, 
Missouri,  ^ew  York,  Xorth  Carolina,  Ohio,  Penn- 
sylvania, South  Carolina,  Tennessee,  Texas,  Vir- 
ginia, West  Virginia,  and  Wisconsin.  That  of 
Massachusetts  was  established  in  1829,  and  was 
the  first  of  all.  Johnson's  Cyclopedia  gives  a  list 
of  thirty  institutions  for  the  blind  in  Europe,  the 
first  of  which  was  established  in  Paris,  in  1784,  a. 
period  of  forty-five  years  before  America  could 
boast  of  a  similar  home  for  this  unfortunate  class. 
Of  this  list  of  thirty,  all  but  five  were  established 
before  that  of  Boston,  the  first  American  institu- 
tion. 

In  1870  there  were  1,767  blind  persons  in  Penn 
sylvania,  which  w^as  one  to  every  1,900  inhabitants. 
At  the  same  time,  there  were  in  the  United  States 
20,320  blind  persons.  Up  to  1874,  Ohio  had  ex- 
pended by  state  appropriations  for  the  blind  more 
than  81,000,000,  and  had  at  its  Asylum  in  Colum- 
bus 169  pupils,  while  the  number  of  the  blind  of 
the  entire  state  was  870.  The  ratio  to  th^e  entire 
population  was  one  to  1,370,  which  is  a  higher 
ratio  than  Pennsylvania  presents,  as  will  be  seen 
above. 

It  might  be  interesting,  did  our  limits  admit,  to 


"238  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER    DAYS. 

continue  these  general  statistics  further.  We  trust 
this  reference  may  awaken  in  the  reader  a  desire 
for  improved  knowledge  of  this  class  of  our  com- 
munity, and  awaken  further  sympathy  in  their 
behalf.  The  reader  may  well  be  grateful  for  his 
continued  sight;  and  when  he  thanks  God  for  the 
great  multitude  of  daily  mercies  he  should  not  for- 
get the  record  of  this  almost  chief  of  blessings. 

But  to  return  to  our  story.  The  next  morning 
I  was  assigned  work  in  the  school-room.  Althous-h 
almost  a  man,  I  must  take  the  lowermost  seat,  and 
begin  with  the  alphabet.  A  card  of  raised  capital 
letters  was  placed  in  my  hands,  and  I  was  directed 
to  learn  these  without  tlie  aid  of  my  sight.  I  must 
now  read  with  my  fingers,  as  a  preparation  for  my 
•own  gloomy  future.  After  a  few  days  a  card  of 
smaller  letters  was  given  me  to  learn.  I  had  great 
difficulty  in  mastering  the  situation;  and  it  seemed 
to  me  at  first  an  utter  impossibility.  The  teacher 
would  place  my  finger  on  a  letter,  and  then  tell 
me  to  study  its  shape  and  determine  its  name  while 
he  was  gone  to  others  in  the  class.  This  seemed 
to  me  like  small  work,  and  yet  T  could  see  in  it 
a  foundation  for  the  future.  ^Vriting  and  arith- 
metic were  taught  us  in  a  similar  manner,  while 
history  and  some  other  studies  were  learned  by 
hearing  them  read.  For  example,  the  teacher 
would  read  the  lesson  in  history,  grammar,  or  ge- 


AMONG   THE    BLIND.  239 

ography  several  times  over,  and  the  next  day  \xg 
were  required  to  tell  of  it  what  we  could.  This 
was  the  more  enjoyable  and  less  difficult  method 
of  instruction.  I  was  soon  obliged  to  guide  my- 
self about  the  building.  Though  I  could  slight- 
ly see,  I  found  great  difficulty  in  this,  and  met  with 
frequ'ent  falls.  These  mishaps  Avere  much  enjoyed 
by  my  jovial,  though  sightless  companions. 

In  the  course  of  a  mouth  my  studies  were  brok- 
en oti"  by  another  attack  of  eye-trouble.  The  at- 
tack was  quite  as  severe  as  that  at  home ;  but  from 
the  skillful  treatment  I  experienced,  and  the  per- 
fectuess  of  my  accommodations,  I  did  not  sutler  so 
severely  or  so  long.  I  was  taken  to  the  infirmary 
connected  with  the  institution  for  treatment.  The 
second  day  after  my  entrance  the  doctor  told  me 
that  it  would  be  necessary  to  perform  an  operation 
on  my  right  eye.  I  made  no  objection;  neither 
did  I  inquire  as  to  the  nature  of  it,  or  even  imagine 
what  it  was  to  be.  An  anaesthetic  was  adminis- 
tered to  me,which  induced  an  unconscious  condition; 
and  when  I  became  conscious  my  eye  was  closely 
bandaged.  For  ten  days  following  I  was  kept  close 
in  bed,  and  none  of  my  companions  were  allow- 
ed to  visit  me.  "When  at  last  the  bandas^e  was 
removed,  I  said  to  the  doctor,  "  I  can  not  see  with 
my  right  eye,  and  it  seems  smaller  than  the  other." 
He  then  explained  to  me  the  startling  fact  of  its 


240  THE   LIGHT    OF   OTHER   DAYS. 

removal.  I  had  known  nothing  of  the  loss,  nor, 
indeed,  of  the  operation  performed.  It  was  hoped 
that  the  removal  of  the  right  might  restore  par- 
tially the  left  eye ;  and  for  a  time  this  expectation 
seemed  about  to  be  realized.  It  speedily  became 
stronger;  and  therewith  my  general  strength  re- 
turned, and  I  was  soon  able  to  be  about  again. 

A  Miss  Brown,  a  lady  most  gratefully  remem- 
bered by  me,  was  connected  with  the  infirmary  as 
teacher  of  a  deaf  and  dumb  boy ;  and  in  many  ways 
she  rendered  me  ver}-  special  comfort  and  atten- 
tion. Not  only  did  she  anticipate  my  general 
wants,  but  she  also  read  aloud  to  me  during  my 
sickness,  as  I  was  able  to  bear  it,  and  otherwise 
displayed  a  real  Christian  spirit.  Angels  of  mercy 
will  often  cross  one's  path,  as  the  reader  will  see  I 
had  fully  demonstrated;  and  in  the  person  of  Miss 
Brown  I  had  found  one  who  sent  much  sunshine 
into  my  darkened  and  fainting  soul.  Heaven 
guide  her  in  all  her  ways ;  and  may  every  weary 
soul  be  as  graciously  ministered  to  as  the  writer 
has  been  in  his  wants. 

During  the  time  of  my,  stay  my  father  had  vis- 
ited me  on  two  occasions;  and  very  often  letters 
came  to  cheer  my  heart.  Indeed,  a  letter  from 
home  with  its  love  and  kiss  portions,  is  ever  re- 
freshing to  a  weary,  wandering  child. 

The  end  of  the  term  had  now  come,  and  for  two 


AMONG    THE    BLIND.  241 

months  the  students  could  be  with  their  friends. 
]^earlj  all  would  leave,  although  some  were  with- 
out homes  to  which  they  could  repair.  One  such 
was  a  friend  slightly  older  than  myself,  formerly 
from  Wales.  It  was  decided  that  he  should  go 
with  me,  and  be  my  guest  during  the  vacation. 
Though  most  of  the  students  expected  to  re- 
turn, yet  some  did  not;  and  withal,  the  parting 
season  was  one  of  unusual  solemnity.  The  blind 
were  at  home  amid,  a  companionship  wholly  in 
sympathy  with  themselves;  and  they  preferred  to 
run  together  the  race  of  life,  and  fight  its  battles 
shoulder  to  shoulder.  The  leave-taking  was  gen- 
erally atiectionate;  and  unpleasant  disagreements 
were  amicably  adjusted,  forgiven,  and  forgotten. 
Separation  sometimes  brings  estranged  hearts 
nearer;  and  soul-reunion  is  often  possible  only  in 
separation.  The  events  of  life  are  well  arranged 
by  Him  who  knoweth  what  we  are  and  what  we 
need. 

The  ride  home  was  much  enjoj'ed,  and  the  coun- 
try air  afforded  us  an  exhilarating  feeling.  I  could 
not  descry  the  face  of  those  familiar  forms  of  na- 
ture along  the  line  which  I  had  so  often  passed; 
but  the  sound  of  song  as  given  forth  in  the  sweet 
voices  of  birds  never  seemed  so  full  of  melody  to 
me  as  now.  As  the  sight  diminishes  in  intensity, 
the  other  senses  begin  to  intensify;  and  I  was  bc- 

16 


242  THE   LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

ginning  to  realize  this  fact.  Especially  is  this 
true  with  hearing,  upon  which  the  blind  need  so 
much  to  depend.  Seeing  by  sound  is  an  expres- 
sion much  more  rational  than  many  another  ex- 
travagant and  fanciful  form  of  speech. 

On  arriving  at  Doylestown  we  found  my  father 
in  waiting  with  a  carriage,  and  we  were  soon  at 
the  door  of  my  home  and  by  my  mother's  side. 
Home  presented  great  changes,  though  my  absence 
had  been  but  for  a  few  months.  Ten  years  were 
past  since  Willie  came  to  us,  and  now  another 
brother  had  peeped  into  our  humble  home  and 
there  taken  up  his  abode.  This  little  stranger  I 
found  to  be  a  namesake  of  the  renowned  General 
George  B.  McClellan.  To  me  he  was  welcome; 
and,  unlike  many  precious  babes,  he  was  welcome 
to  all  the  house.  A  babe  was  a  new  thing  to  us, 
and  his  infant  spirit  bound  us  back  again  to  earlier 
years.  Baby -life  makes  all  the  world  young  again. 
Even  tottering  grandparents  feel  themselves  fresh 
and  vigorous  again  under  the  genial  smile  of  a 
darling  babe.  Welcome,  thrice  welcome  is  this 
new  messenger  from  God.  May  his  future  be  one 
of  unclouded  bliss.  May  no  deep,  dark  shadows 
cover  his  path,  but  may  he  profit  by  the  life  of  his 
wayward  brother.  It  is  a  satisfaction  to  know 
that  by  the  misery  of  our  examp>le  we  may  have 
saved  others,  or  restrained  them  somewhat  in  the 


AMONG  THE   BLIND.  243 

dangerous  ways  of  life.  But  if  baby  was  a  beam 
of  sunshine  to  our  home,  he  could  only  at  best 
give  a  sih^er  lining  to  another  cloud  that  had  gath- 
ered over  our  home.  Willie,  the  dear,  pale  boy, 
had  broken  his  leg,  and  from  his  suffering  was 
more  feeble  than  ever.  He  had  hardly  life  enough 
for  this  new  trial,  and  it  sapped  too  deeply  the 
fountain  of  his  energy.  It  but  gave  a  new  im- 
petus to  his  already  hurried  march  to  the  grave. 
He  was  patient  and  hopeful  that  ere  our  vacation 
was  gone  he  would  be  a  companion  for  us;  and 
we  needed  him  much  as  a  guide  to  our  feet.  He 
would  have  been  light  for  our  eyes  and  a  staff  for 
his  brother's  hand. 

In  Mr.  Griffith,  my  school-mate,  I  found  a  pleas- 
iint,  genial  companion,  one  toward  whom  my  very 
soul  went  out.  From  his  own  experience,  he  knew 
my  want  better  in  some  ways  than  the  devoted 
inembers  of  my  own  household.  It  is  well  said 
that  "misery  likes  company;"  and  the  companion- 
ship of  misery  needs  to  be  of  kin  to  itself,  or  much 
the  same  in  kind.  He  who  hath  himself  buried 
loved  ones  can  best  sympathize  with  him  whose 
sorrow  is  the  same.  My  companion  was  early  or- 
phaned, and  crossed  the  ocean  to  this  new  world 
when  but  a  child.  He  had  seen  much  for  a  blind 
man,  and  had  suffered  much.  His  experience  dif- 
fered somewhat  from  mine,  and  yet  in  many  ways 


244  THE   LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS 

there  was  some  resemblance.  He  had  plowed  the 
deep,  blue  sea,  and  knew  what  the  wrath  of  angry- 
storm  did  mean.  He  was  a  good  talker,  and  de- 
lighted in  portraying  the  lessons  of  his  sad  and 
checkered  career.  He  was  a  good  vocalist,  also, 
and  gave  us  beautiful  strains  of  choice  music  on 
the  violin  and  guitar.  Thus,  as  a  companion  he 
was  refreshing  at  home  and  welcomed  abroad. 
"We  strolled  together  much  during  the  vacation, 
sharing  in  the  festivities  of  several  picnics,  visited 
the  old  neighborhood,  and  forgot  not  to  visit  the 
Sabbath-schools  of  sunnier  days.  I  could  not 
readily  recognize  old  friends  by  their  features,  but  by 
voice  I  knew  nearly  all  of  them  full  well.  "Withal,, 
our  home-stay  was  delightful,  and  we  mourned 
somewhat  when  we  had  reached  the  revolution  of 
the  final  week.  We  would  fain  have  stayed  longer 
in  a  home  now  so  pleasant  and  full  of  sunshine  and 
love.  Mr.  Griffith,  by  his  beautiful  Christian  life, 
had  contributed  much  to  the  spirit  of  our  home, 
and  to  the  pleasure  of  our  stay.  In  his  denomi- 
national relationship  he  was  a  Methodist;  and 
though  quiet  in  his  demonstrations,  yet  he  was 
consistent  in  his  life  and  faithful  to  his  profession. 
In  my  heart  I  longed  to  be  like  him,  and  seriously 
thought  of  publicly  professing  faith  at  home,  and 
asking  for  a  place  in  the  church  of  Dr.  Andrews 
with  my  parents.     But  the  religious  approaches  to 


AMONG   THE    BLIND.  245 

my  heart  were  too  formal  and  mechanical,  and  I 
finally  concluded  that  m  secret  and  alone  I  would 
€arry  out  my  former  resolutions. 


246  THE   LIGHT    OF   OTHER  DAYS. 


CHAl'TER-  XXXII. 

GROPING  FOR   THE  LIGHT. 

Tne  last  days  of  August  were  reached,  and  we 
prepared  to  return  for  the  new  school-year.  On 
my  return  I  added  to  my  studies  music,  singing, 
and  grammar;  and  for  work,  I  entered  the  broom 
department,  from  which,  however,  I  was  soon 
transferred  to  the  brush  department.  In  the  work- 
room I  gave  some  two  hours  a  day.  The  perma- 
nent workmen  were  older  than  the  students,  and 
the  associations  were  far  from  good.  Several  of 
them  had  been  in  the  arni}^,  and  stories  of  army- 
life  were  told  and  heard  with  special  satisfaction,, 
but  with  little  profit. 

The  rules  of  the  institution  required  that  the 
students  should  attend  one  service  each  Sabbath, 
wherever  they  might  choose.  I  used  to  avoid  do- 
ing so  very  often,  spending  the  time  instead  in 
social  visits  to  various  parts  of  the  city  with  my 
blind  companions.  Some  of  these  men  would  go 
all  over  the  city  alone,  and  without  even  the  help 
of  a  cane.     These  visits  proved  very  disastrous  ta 


GROPING   FOR   THE    LIGHT.  247 

our  morals,  and  I  soon  found  that  I  had  little 
pleasure  in  the  company  of  the  better  class  of  stu- 
dents. Beer  and  ale  were  now  often  ottered  me, 
and  I  soon  partook  of  them  without  compunction. 
There  were  many  religious  young  men  in  the  in- 
stitution, and  they  supported  their  semi-weekly 
prayer-meeting.  These  I  rarely  attended,  but 
ratner  yielded  to  companions  who  drew  me 
back  from  God  and  good  works.  This,  too,  in 
spite  of  all  that  my  family  and  friends  had  done, 
and  in  spue  ot  all  that  God  had  done  and  was 
doing  for  my  comfort  and  peace.  Yet  with  all  of 
this  recreancy  God  did  not  forget  nor  forsake  me, 
and  devoted  friends  still  loved  me  and  hoped  for  my 
recovery  and  reform.  To  accomplish  this  end,  or 
as  a  means  thereto,  the  hand  of  God  was  to  rest 
heavily  upon  me  once  more.  I  was  struck  down, 
and  again  carried  to  the  infirmary.  It  began  to  ap- 
pear to  me  that  God  would  break  my  stubborn 
heart  or  destroy  my  life  in  the  attempt.  I  was 
once  more  under  the  influence  of  Miss  Brown, 
whom  I  had  not  forgotten,  though  I  had  disregard- 
ed her  Christian  counsel.  She  was  again  ready 
with  her  kind  words  and  gentle,  sisterly  aid.  My 
old  associates  were  removed  from  me,  and  I  felt 
relieved,  and  thought  I  would  never  want  them 
again.  But  oh,  how  littte  did  I  know  of  myself. 
Mr.  Edwards,  a  Presbyterian  clergyman,  called 


248  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER    DAYS. 

several  times  to  see  me,  and  administered  consola- 
tion. 

One  day  a  gentleman  called  to  see  me,  who,  after 
some  time  spent  in  general  talk,  took  a  Bible  from 
Lis  pocket,  and  at  the  same  moment  asked  me  if 
I  was  a  Christian.  I  sincerely-  regretted  that  I 
had  to  say  I  was  not.  He  kindly  proposed  to  read, 
if  I  felt  no  objection — as  most  certainly  I  did  not. 
He  read  several  passages  pointing  to  the  cross  by 
the  way  of  repentance,  and  then  prayed  for  me 
very  fervently.  I  felt  deeply  convicted  and  very 
penitent — though  I  sought  to  conceal  this  fact.  He 
told  me  that  he  was  a  missionary  from  Xev.^  York, 
and  would  like  to  present  my  request  for  praj-ers 
to  the  Fulton-Street  prayer-meeting,  of  which  he 
told  me  much.  I  gladly  consented  to  this;  and, 
promising  to  call  again  in  a  short  time,  he  com- 
mended me  to  God  and  bid  me  good-day.  Mind- 
ful of  his  promise,  he  called  again  in  a  few  days. 
In  conversation  he  dwelt  much  upon  the  brevity 
and  uncertainty  of  life,  and  insisted  that  I  surren- 
der myself  at  once  to  the  Lord  Jesus.  Again  he 
read  God's  word,  and  addressed  his  throne  in  my 
behalf.  Arising,  he  wished  me  to  give  God  my 
heart  on  condition  that  he  would  raise  me  up 
again.  I  pledged  him  my  word  I  would,  which 
promise  he  followed  and  nailed,  as  I  felt,  with 
another  earnest  prayer.     I  felt  better  in  that  I  was 


GROPING  FOR  THE  LIGHT.  249 

satisfied  with  what  I  had  done.  I  spent  nearly  the 
tintire  following  night  in  prayer,  and  the  next  day 
I  was  glad  to  see  my  strange  friend  again.  Once 
more  he  commended  me  to  God  in  prayer,  earnestly 
exhorted  me,  and  bid  me  a  iinal  farewell.  I  never 
saw  his  face  again ;  and  memory  fails  to  serve  me 
with  bis  name  for  my  page  of  grateful  tribute. 
He  did  for  me  his  part,  and  did  it  well.  If  I  am 
not  saved  at  last,  no  fault  can  attacli  to  him. 

Once  more  I  was  convalescent,  and  soon  was 
again  able  to  be  up  and  about  the  house.  I  spent 
much  time  in  Miss  Brown's  room,  and  her  Christian 
attention  was  most  cordial  and  refreshing.  I  tried 
to  believe  that  I  was  accepted  of  my  Savior,  but 
soon  dismissed  this  persuasion  in  the  thought  that  I 
must  experience  a  much  more  marvelous  change 
in  my  feelings. 

Before  the  holiday  vacation  my  father  had  vis- 
ited me  and  invited  several  of  my  fellow-students 
to  spend  the  time  at  his  home  in  my  company. 
We  arranged  the  visit  with  a  concert  of  instru- 
mental and  vocal  music  as  a  part  of  our  programme. 
The  concert  came  off  accordingly,  soon  after  our 
arrival  at  home,  at  the  hall  of  the  court-house,  in 
Doylestown.  It  was  well  patronized  and  highly 
commended. 

During  this  stay  my  mother  desired  me  to  con- 
fess Christ  publicly,  and  be  known  as  a  follower  of 


250  THE   LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

his.  She  had  never  appealed  to  me  so  fervently 
before.  I  told  her  somewhat  of  my  late  experience ; 
that  I  had  formed  the  resolution  to  live  a  Chris- 
tian, but  cared  not  to  make  a  public  profession^ 
and  should  privately,  I  hoped,  show  myself  such. 
Never  could  there  be  a  more  serious  mistake  in 
anv  mortal  conclusion.  The  lie-ht  misrht  as  well 
seek  to  conceal  its  glare,  the  thunder  the  echo  of 
its  voice,  the  sea  its  roar,  the  winds  their  fury,  or 
even  the  sun  its  light.  The  Christian  must  be 
known ;  he  will  be  known.  To  smother  the  re- 
ligious tires  is  to  burn  up  the  hope  of  the  soul  and 
eiiectually  wean  the  heart  from  Jesus.  The  hope 
of  acceptance  in  the  morning  of  eternity  is  based 
on  the  willing  and  bold  confession  of  Christ  before 
men.  Reader,  would  you  be  a  Christian?  Confess 
Jesus  at  once,  and  like  a  brave  warrior  rank  yourself 
alongside  the  followers  of  the  Nazarene.  Never 
did  Satan  weave  a  more  complete  mesh  for  the 
feet  of  the  disciples  of  our  Lord  than  the  protes- 
tation of  my  heart  to  my  mother:  "I  will  be  a 
Christian,  but  the  world  need  not  know  it." 

The  day  of  our  departure  came  again;  and  this 
was  the  saddest  leave-taking  I  ever  had  with  my 
mother.  I  am  sure  I  loved  her  better  than  ever  j 
and  by  her  simple  talk  of  Jesus  she  had  taken  a 
new  hold  on  my  heart.  I  had,  also,  some  fearful 
forebodings  of  the  future,  which  added  to  the  grief 


GROPING   FOR  THE   LIGHT.  251 

of  separation.  The  world  was  not  all  dark  yet^ 
but  I  knew  not  how  soon  it  would  be.  That  ulti- 
mately such  would  be  the  case,  I  had  good  reason 
to  believe ;  and  that  the  midnight  gloom  would 
soon  set  in,  I  had  almost  positive  assurance.  Should 
I  ever  again  behold  my  mother's  face,  and  from 
the  radiance  of  her  eye  gather  new  inspiration  for 
my  life  ?  This  was  a  question  to  which  I  feared  a 
negative  answer  must  come ;  and  so  it  proved,  in 
the  inscrutable  providence  of  God.  /  ivas  never 
again  to  see  the  mother  that  gave  me  life.  I  should 
press  her  hand  and  catch  her  words  of  tender  love, 
but  I  should  never,  never  more  see  the  face  of  my 
devoted  mother.  If  in  that  parting  hour  and  in 
the  moment  of  that  good-by  kiss  I  had  known 
that  her  face  would  henceforth  be  forever  veiled 
from  my  sight,  surely  my  heart  must  have  broken 
within  me.  In  God's  goodness,  the  worst  was  not 
known,  and  I  was  spared  a  sorrow  that  I  scarcely 
could  have  borne. 

My  sister  returned  with  me,  to  wait  upon  the 
door  as  usher  of  the  institution.  This  was  a  won- 
derful satisfaction  to  me,  and  softened  greatly  the 
bitterness  of  the  pang  of  parting.  But  my  old 
friends  came  around  me  as  of  old  on  my  return. 
They  knew  of  my  promises  and  my  serious  pur- 
poses, and  at  once  they  rallied  me  as  a  Methodist. 
I  could  not  endure  so  much  as  this  for  Him  who 


1252  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

had  endured  every tliiug  for  me.  However,  had  any 
one  at  this  time  taken  me  to  their  heart  in  an 
earnest,  Christian  manner,  I  could  have  stood  my 
ground.  But  there  seemed  to  be  no  one  thus  in- 
t'lined.  Had  the  situation  been  clearly  understood, 
I  am  sure  the  disposition  to  support  me  would  not 
have  been  wanting.  My  Christian  mates,  perhaps, 
had  not  that  degree  of  confidence  which  their 
kinship  to  frail  and  simple  humanity  should  have 
inspired;  and  this  is  a  too  general  mistake  with 
Christians.  The  seed  sown  in  my  heart  proved 
but  a  wayside  seed,  having  no  depth  of  earth.  I 
forgot  my  vows,  turned  my  back  again  on  God, 
and  followed  my  old  companions  into  the  ways  of 
sin.  I  continued  until  February  at  my  work  and 
studies,  and  faithfully  followed,  meantime,  my 
•doubly  blind  guides  in  all  their  ways  of  sinfulness 
and  folly. 

Sharp  pains  now  began  to  attack  my  remaining 
eye,  and  for  its  examination  and  treatment  I  was 
taken  to  Will's  Infirmary,  near  by.  I  was  told 
that  an  operation  was  imperative  ;  and  1  knew  too 
well  what  this  meant  now.  I  refused  my  consent, 
and  returned  to  the  home.  The  trouble  daily  in- 
creased, and  began  to  be  more  than  I  could  endure. 
Again  I  went  to  Will's  Infirmary  for  further  exam- 
ination. I  was  informed  that  the  eye  must  be  re- 
moved.    I  protested  that  I  could  not  give  up  the 


GROPING   FOR   THE   LIGHT.  253 

little  sight  that  I  had ;  I  could  not  part  with  my 
last  and  only  eye.  "You  had  better  part  with 
your  eye  than  your  life,"  said  the  professor.  Again 
I  refused,  and  was  conducted  homeward  w^ith  a 
doubly  heavy  heart.  My  mother  had  pleaded  with 
me  to  never  submit  again  to  an  operation  without 
iirst  consulting  her.  She  had  a  horror  of  the 
thought  that  her  son  should  be  blind  forever.  She 
had  said  much  to  me  of  the  horrible  darkness  of 
a  final  blindness;  and  most  surely  my  own  soul 
recoiled  therefrom.  The  little  sight  I  had  was  a 
great  help  by  day;  and  in  the  night  I  could  easily 
follow  the  light  of  the  street-lamps.  A  few  rays 
of  light  were  left  me  in  my  weary  way.  The  moon 
could  yet  rejoice  my  heart,  and  the  sun  was  not 
quite  gone  down.  What  wonder  that  my  soul  re- 
belled against  the  putting  out  of  these  lights  for- 
ever ! 

There  was  no  abatement  to  my  suffering.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  my  brain  would  be  crazed,  and 
thus  my  mind  lose  its  light  forever,  if  I  still  per- 
sisted in  clinging  to  that  of  the  eye.  For  ten  long, 
weary  days  and  nights  I  endured  the  pangs  of 
torment.  In  this  condition  I  was  to  decide  wLetlier 
I  would  exchange  light  for  darkness,  day  for  night. 
I  finally  consulted  with  Mr.  Capp,  a  teacher  of  tlie 
institution  and  a  Christian  gentleman.  He  advised 
the  operation,  and  said  that  he  would  accomjiiny 


254  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DATS. 

and  comfort  me  in  every  way  possible.  Another 
student  was  going  for  the  same  operation,  and  I 
would  not  be  alone.  There  is  a  relief  in  compan- 
ionship, even  when  ^oing  to  the  gallows.  Sym- 
pathy seems  to  divide  sutlering  and  invigorate  the 
«oul  for  its  endurance.  My  reflections  were  most 
«erious.  The  condition  of  blindness  was  awful  to 
my  imagination,  and  yet  I  failed  in  that  hour,  by 
far,  to  take  in  the  full  reality  or  measurement  of 
the  dreadful  state.  I  was  looking  only  upon  the 
picture  of  the  coming  storm;  but  I  saw  enough. 
Had  I  seen  more,  or  even  half  the  truth,  my  soul 
would  have  shrunk  from  contact  with  the  death  of 
■darkness,  and  given  itself  a  victim  to  the  grave 
of  despair.  I  was  forewarned  that  the  operation 
might  be  fatal,  as  in  many  another  case  it  had  been. 
I  had  no  gold  or  silver  to  bequeath,  and  no  houses 
or  lands" to  will  away;  and  yet  I  had  a  soul,  the 
value  of  which  could  not  be  measured  by  such 
terms.  I  knew  that  I  was  wholly  unprepared  for 
such  a  fate,  and  I  also  knew  that  that  most  desira- 
ble of  preparations  was  an  actual  possibility. 
These  serious  reflections,  however,  did  not  deter- 
mine me  to  make  the  needful  preparation ;  and  as 
I  was  I  went  forth  to  the  institution  for  the  opera- 
tion. 


BLIND   AT    LAST.  255 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

BLIND  AT  LAST. 

Two  days  were  spent  in  dieting,  before  the  ope- 
ration could  be  performed.  The  body,  if  not  the 
soul,  must  have  its  preparation.  The  one  was  in- 
sisted on  far  more  than  the  other.  At  last  the 
horrible  suspense  was  over,  and  the  dreadful  day 
€ome.  Some  sixty  students  were  assembled  to 
witness  the  operations,  which  were  conducted  by 
Prof.  Morton.  My  friend,  Mr.  Overton,  preceded 
me  to  the  operating-room,  which  was  simply  across 
the  hall  from  my  room,  I  was  left  alone.  Though 
a  Christian  young  man,  Mr.  Overton  feared  great- 
ly that  the  operation  might  prove  fatal.  When 
linally  under  the  influence  of  the  anaesthetic,  he 
imagined  himself  dead  and  in  the  other  world, 
where  he  was  tormented  by  fiends.  I  heard  with 
agony  his  groans,  cries,  and  screams,  and  my  very 
«oul  shuddered  within  me.  Dr.  Palmer,  fearing  I 
might  be  terrilied,  came  in  to  pacify  me.  I  really 
told  him  I  was  not  terrified ;  but  the  deep  measure 
of  my  terror  he  must  have  seen.    Fear  is  instinctive 


256  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER    DAYS. 

with  all ;  aud  by  no  system  of  training  may  the 
soul  rid  itself  of  this  emotion.  Its  expression  is 
condemned  as  unmanly ;  and  thus  the  soul  is  driven 
to  shield  its  honor  behind  the  veil  of  deception. 
This  has  been  too  often  done  upon  the  threshold  of 
the  grave  and  the  boundary-line  of  eternity.  This 
sentiment  of  the  human  heart  needs  correcting. 
Even  the  as^onv  of  Christ  in  the  garden  was  no 
matter  for  concealment  or  excuse.  He  stood  in  the 
deep,  dark  shadow  of  approaching  torment  and 
imminent  death  !  If  the  Master  wept  and  groaned, 
so  may  we.  If  he  struggled  and  agonized,  such 
emotions  are  justifiable  in  us.  Nay,  this  example 
is  given  for  our  comfort;  not  that  our  tears  may 
be  stayed  and  our  groans  stifled,  but  that  the  soul 
might  gather  strength  for  its  agony. 

The  return  of  Mr.  Overton  to  my  room,  groaning 
and  crying,  but  increased  my  terror.  I  felt  very 
much  like  receding  from  my  purpose.  I  had,  how- 
ever, been  somewhat  hardened  to  such  scenes  by 
operations  that  I  had  witnessed  both  in  the  army 
and  at  Eio  Janeiro.  I  was  led  into  the  operating- 
room  with  much  of  the  indifference  that  an  -ox 
would  be  led  to  the  slaughter.  I  failed  to  catch 
the  first  show  or  sign  of  sympathy.  The  surgeon 
seems  to  educate  himself  against  such  an  expres- 
sion, as  though  it  were  an  unmanly  sign  in  him. 
Their  argument  is  that  life  depends  on  the  act,  and 


BLIND    AT    LAST.  •_•  257 

thus  compensates  all  suffering,  and  that  any  show 
of  sympathy  would  but  terrify  the  sufferer  to  a 
greater  degree.  But  the  sympathy  of  the  gospel 
and  its  Christ  gives  birth  to  an  army  of  heroes  and 
martyrs  such  as  the  world  has  never  seen  outside 
the  church.  Why,  if  sympathy  is  so  desirable  and 
effective  in  the  one  case,  is  it  undesirable  and  in- 
effective in  the  other?  Surgeons,  even,  may  have 
more  sympathy  without  any  perceptible  diminutioa 
of  their  manhood.  I  was  laid  upon  a  table,  some- 
what resembling  a  lounge,  for  the  operation.  In 
this  attitude  I  was  compelled  to  listen  to  a  brief 
lecture  by  the  professor  to  the  students,  describing 
the  operation  on  Mr.  Overton,  after  which  the  stu- 
dents were  directed  to  come  forward  and  examine 
my  eye.  This  subjected  me  to  absolute  mental 
torture  for  many  minutes.  I  was  in  the  condition 
of  the  criminal,  who  is  obliged  to  listen  to  the 
death-warrant  before  hanging.  This  suspense 
was  horrible,  and  to  my  mind  wholly  unnecessary. 
It  may  have  been  an  advantage  to  the  students, 
and  possibly  for  future  suffering  patients;  but  I 
was  in  no  condition  to  appreciate  tlie  wisdom  there- 
of, and  by  no  means  so  disinterested  as  thus  will- 
ingly to  be  tortured  for  the  relief  of  others. 

Finally  ether  was  administered  to  me.  It  seem- 
ed as  though  my  lungs  were  being  filled  to  exclude 
the  air  therefrom.     M}'  hearing  became  painfully 

17 


258  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

acute.  The  least  sound  was  almost  like  that  of 
thunder.  The  roaring  in  mj  head  resembled  the 
noise  of  a  fast  train  continually  crossing  another 
track  at  right  angles.  The  sensation  was  most 
horrible.  I  knew  the  doctor's  hand  was  on  mj 
breast,  and  that  thus  he  was  watching  my  respira- 
tion. He  raised  my  arms  and  let  them  fall  upon 
my  breast.  I  felt  him  use  an  instrument  upon  my 
eye  for  its  exposure,  and  watched  with  alarm  for  the 
cutting  of  the  knife.  But  instead,  he  called  to 
"John"  for  more  ether.  Coverinor  the  spouofe  with 
a  cloth,  they  placed  it  again  upon  my  face.  It 
seemed  now  that  some  one  was  tearing  my  throat, 
and  I  kicked  and  struggled  violently.  Then  they 
strapped  my  limbs,  both  legs  and  arms,  that  I 
might  have  no  liberty  whatever.  Intense  suiiering 
followed,  but  I  could  not  locate  it.  The  horrors 
of  death  seemed  taking  hold  upon  me ;  and,  liter- 
ally, I  was  passing  from  the  world  of  light  to  that 
of  darkness. 

With  my  first  consciousness  I  began  to  wonder 
where  I  was,  and  struggled  to  get  free;  but  I  was 
yet  bound.  A  terrible  pain  darted  from  my  eye 
and  flashed  over  my  system.  I  awakened  as  one 
from  a  midnight  slumber  in  which  some  horrible 
dream  had  disturbed  the  soul.  But  then,  as  now, 
I  could  not  comfort  myself  that  all  was  a  dream, 
and  that  the  downy  couch  was  really  my  refreshing 


BLIND    AT    LAST.  259 

bed.  I  knew  I  was  still  on  the  table,  and  feared 
instantly  the  further  operations  of  the  keen,  mer- 
ciless knife.  But  the  knife  had  already  done  its 
work.  The  horrible  reality  had  come  at  last;  1 
was  forever  blind. 

I  was  borne  to  my  room  by  my  nurses,  who  con- 
gratulated me  for  my  bravery.  Their  compliments 
were  cold  comfort,  and  not  highly  appreciated.  I 
was  laid  upon  my  bed  in  a  state  of  extreme  ex- 
haustion. Mr.  Overton  was  still  groaning,  though 
in  his  case  consciousness  had  not  yet  returned. 
The  suffering  was  now  most  intense.  It  seemed 
as  though  hot  irons  were  being  forced  into  the 
socket  of  my  eye.  The  night  was  one  of  agony, 
despite  all  that  could  be  done.  Sleep  departed 
from  me,  and  I  felt  that  I  was  about  to  pass  through 
the  gates  of  eternity.  The  storm  was  wild  with- 
out, as  if  the  very  elements  were  inclined  to  mock 
my  grief.  The  groans  of  the  patients  in  the  ad- 
joining rooms,  the  cat-like  tread  of  the  nurses, 
together  with  the  beating  pacings  of  the  watch- 
men on  the  walks  below,  all  added  to  the  gloom 
■of  the  midnight  darkness  that  enshrouded  me. 

At  last  the  morning  came,  the  patients  began  to 
rise  and  move  about,  and  the  breakfast-bell  sum- 
moned them  for  their  repast.  Their  talk  annoyed 
me,  and  every  simple  sound  was  painful.  The  day 
was  a  most  lonely  one,  and  I  longed  for  my  moth  - 


260  THE   LIGHT   OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

er's  presence  with  almost  every  moment.  That 
my  sister  did  not  come  from  the  home  seemed  more 
than  strange  to  me.  No  one  came  to  see  me  save 
the  nurse,  and  he  but  occasionally,  to  see  if  I  had 
a  want.  My  suffering  was  unabated  during  the 
day,  and  so  intense  that  I  could  not  think  of  food. 
It  was  tenfold  greater  than  that  attending  the  first 
operation. 

Mr.  Capp  called  in  the  evening  and  brought 
sympathy  from  the  boys,  who  had  learned  some- 
thing of  my  severe  suffering.  He  said  my  sister 
had  called,  but  was  not  admitted.  He  sought  to 
cheer  me,  and  expressed  the  hope  that  I  would  be  out 
ao-ain  and  back  to  the  home  in  a  few  davs.  This 
was  really  contrary  to  my  expectation,  for  I  thought 
I  could  not  survive  any  length  of  time.  Before 
leaving  he  promised  to  send  me  Alfred  !N'esmith, 
a  Christian  young  man  whom  I  desired  to  see. 
Mr.  Nesmith  had  once  urged  me  to  become  a 
Christian,  and  I  felt  that  now  I  could  appreciate 
such  talk.  I  purposed  to  unburden  my  whole 
heart  to  him,  and  hoped  he  could  bear  my  case 
etiectively  to  the  Savior.  The  nurse  had  over- 
heard the  conversation  between  Mr.  Capp  and  my- 
self, and  as  soon  as  he  was  gone  came  in  and  told 
me  that  I  must  not  expect  to  see  Mr.  Xesmith  or 
any  other  person  for  several  days,  as  the  doctors 
had  strictly  forbidden  company. 


-       BLIND    AT   LAST.  261 

No  one  now  came  near  me  for  several  days,  and 
meantime,  although  my  physical  suft'ering  was 
abating,  my  mental  agony  was  increasing.  I  felt 
that  I  was  shut  out  from  the  world  and  from  God. 
In  the  way  of  food,  nothing  furnished  me  tempted 
ray  appetite,  and  I  was  sensibly  sinking  with  each 
day. 

One  morning  I  recognized  the  voice  of  Dr.  Pal- 
mer, and  I  asked  him  if  he  was  the  Dr.  Palmer 
that  used  to  be  at  the  Episcopal  Hospital.  He  was 
the  same  man,  as  I  supposed;  and  after  a  little 
conversation  he  recalled  me  to  mind.  He  inquired 
about  my  appetite,  and  I  told  him  that  I  could  not 
eat  what  I  received.  The  doctor  then  kindly  or- 
dered the  nurse  to  bring  me  oysters,  broiled  lamb, 
toast,  etc.,  saying  that  he  would  meet  all  expense 
from  his  own  purse.  From  this  time  the  fare 
changed,  and  my  appetite  improved,  with  most  en- 
couraojing  results. 

One  day  a  gentleman  stole  to  my  bedside  and 
said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  Is  not  your  name  Smith  ?" 
"  Yes,"  said  I.  "  Were  you  a  drummer-boy  in  the 
104th  Pennsylvania?"  "  I  was,"  I  answered,  with 
an  interest  already  aroused  in  my  strange  friend. 
^'Do  you  remember  Frank  Land,  of  that  regi- 
ment ?"  he  asked.  "  Indeed  I  do,"  said  I.  *'  TWd," 
says  he,  "  I  am  he ;"  and  he  grasped  my  hand  most 
cordially.     I  was  heartily  glad  to  meet  this  dear 


262  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYg. 

old  comrade.  Said  lie,  "I  will  do  anything  for 
you ;"  and  he  faithfully  kept  his  word,  proving 
himself  a  most  cordial  friend  in  those  hours  of 
need.  He  took  the  place  of  my  nurse,  and  brought 
me  many  a  delicacy  from  the  street.  He  was  a 
rainbow  of  light  in  my  dark  and  cloudy  sky. 

Mr.  ITesmith  improved  the  first  opportunity  to- 
call,  and  said,  "  I  understood  you  wish  to  see  me." 
My  heart  was  full,  and  yet  in  the  moment  it  partly 
failed  me.  I  wanted  to  tell  him  all  my  grief,  and 
that  sin  was  the  chief  reason  for  my  sorrow.  I 
finally  said,  "I  am  not  satisfied  with  mj'self  spir- 
itually, and  I  wish  to  see  a  minister."  He  prom- 
ised to  send  me  his  pastor,  a  Presbyterian  clergy- 
man. 

In  the  evening  Mr.  Capp  came  and  read  to  me 
from  the  Bible,  and  from  Bunyan's  "  Pilgrim's 
Progress."  The  account  of  the  pilgrim  in  the 
slough  of  despond,  I  felt,  exactly  described  my  place  > 
but  how  to  get  out  was  the  great  question.  I  fear 
I  was  looking  for  a  human  hand  to  help  me  out. 
Mr.  Capp,  however,  spent  several  hours,  and  did 
much  to  cheer  and  console  me. 

'Next  morning  the  Presbyterian  clergyman 
called  to  see  me.  He  showed  me  my  condition,, 
and  tried  by  exhortation  and  praj'er  to  point  me 
to  Jesus.  Still,  I  felt  that  he  was  not  approaching 
me  with  suflicient  sympathy,  and  that  he  could 


BLIND    AT   LAST.  263 

not  help  me.  Kow  I  longed  for  the  old  missionary 
who  had  carried  my  case  to  the  Fulton-Street 
prayer-meeting  the  year  before.  I  felt  as  though 
his  warm  sympathy  would  touch  my  heart  and 
help  my  case.  Or,  could  I  see  my  mother,  I  felt 
that  to  her  I  could  freely  open  my  heart.  But  my 
mother  did  not  come ;  and  why,  I  knew  not.  My 
sister  came  at  last,  and  the  students  and  teachers 
called;  but  I  felt  that  I  wanted  my  mother  more 
and  most  of  all. 

After  many  days  the  bandage  was  removed  from 
my  eyes,  and  I  felt  that  I  must  certainly  see  the 
faintest  light.  But  no ;  all  was  darkness.  I  had 
entered  upon  that  monotonous  night  that  should 
end  only  with  my  life.  In  the  evening  it  should 
be  light;  and  at  the  death-hour  my  vision  should 
be  restored  by  the  touch  of  the  Son  of  God.  l^o 
light  to  me  for  evermore,  until  that  great  day. 


S64  THE   LIGHT    OF    OTHER.  DAYS. 


CHAPTER  XXXIY. 

BACK   TO    THE    INSTITUTION. 

I  now  improved  so  fast  that  the  doctor  consent- 
ed to  my  return  to  the  institution.  My  sister  came 
for  me,  and  by  her  help  I  took  that  sad  lirst  walk 
beneath  the  sun  which  should  never  again  cheer 
my  way.  My  steps  were  heavy  from  my  weakness, 
but  my  heart  was  heavier  from  my  sorrow.  The 
streets  were  full  of  busy  life,  and  the  sun  was  warm 
and  bright;  but  all  were  shutout  from  me.  T  felt 
that  I  no  longer  belonged  to  that  world  into  which 
I  was  born.  I  would  have  felt  content  to  be  shut 
out  from  the  light  for  a  few  weeks,  months,  or 
even  years;  but  that  I  should  be  in  deep,  midnight 
darkness  forever  seemed  a  burden,  a  punishment 
that  I  could  never  bear.  Life  had  never  before 
been  so  utterly  stripped  of  its  charms.  OIj,  how 
my  soul  longed  to  break  its  shackles  of  everlasting 
night,  and  be  forever  free  from  the  suftering  body. 

After  arriving  at  the  institution  I  threw  myself 
upon  my  bed,  and  spent  a  long  time  in  a  flood  of 
tears.     I  had  not  until  now  given  up  to  my  feel- 


BACK   TO    THE    IXSTITUTION.  265 

ings.  I  had  never  before  fully  realized  that  I  was 
blind.  My  walk  amid  the  burning  rays  of  the 
sun  and  the  whirling,  exciting  life  of  the  streets 
had  made  the  fact  a  horrible  reality.  The  orphan 
girl's  lament,  "  I  am  blind;  oh,  I  am  blind  I "  came 
to  my  mind  vividly.  Mr.  Chapin  and  others  called 
to  encourage  and  console  me.  Thev  told  me  that 
I  would  soon  be  well,  and  would  be  able  to  get 
about  among  the  boys  better  than  ever.  But  I 
was  inconsolable.  I  felt  that  with  my  sight,  health 
was  gone,  and  that  I  should  pine  away  and  die. 
The  minister  called,  but  I  felt  myself  unable  to 
bear  his  words. 

M}'  physician  advised  my  return  home,  inasmuch 
as  it  would  be  a  long  time  before  I  could  resume 
my  studies.  Why  my  mother  had  never  visited 
me  since  the  operation,  no  one  had  explained,  and 
I  feared  to  ask.  However,  I  was  now  going  home, 
and  should  soon  know.  My  ride  home  was  a  most 
lonely  one.  I  was  alone,  and  was  making  my  Urst 
journey  as  a  blind  man  without  a  guide.  On  ar- 
riving at  home  I  was  surprised  to  iind  that  my 
mother  and  the  baby  were  not  present.  I  could 
hear  the  voices  of  father,  sister,  and  brother,  and 
share  in  their  attentive  love;  but  where  was  moth- 
er? In  my  exhausted  condition  I  feared  to  ask. 
I  thought,  "She  may  be  sick,  or,  possibly,  she 
may  be  dead."     But  now  my  sister  astonished  me 


266  THE   LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

in  her  explanation.  "  Where  did  you  leave  moth- 
er?" she  asked.  "Mother!"  says  I;  "I  have  not 
seen  her."  The  family  had  not  been  apprised  of 
the  operation.  But  my  sister  had  a  few  days  be- 
fore informed  my  mother  that  I  was  very  low ;  and 
the  morning  that  I  had  started  for  home  she  had 
departed  for  the  city.  I  had  thus  passed  her  on  the 
road.  But  she  could  not  return  before  the  morrow. 
The  physicians  had  forbidden  the  communication 
of  a  knowledge  of  my  condition  to  my  folks,  fear- 
ing that  I  could  not  survive  the  shock  of  their 
coming.  From  my  wearing  glasses,  and  going  di- 
rectly to  bed  on  my  arrival  home,  my  folks  had 
not  noticed  the  fact  of  my  perfect  blindness.  The 
next  day  my  mother  was  at  my  side ;  and  as  she 
had  learned  all  in  the  city,  it  was  not  necessary 
that  any  explanation  should  be  made  by  me. 
Through  streaming  tears  she  chided  me  for  con- 
senting to  the  removal  of  my  only  eye.  I  consoled 
her  by  saying  that  1  had  submitted  only  as  a  iinal 
and  last  means  of  saving  my  life.  My  father  was 
deeply  agitated  over  a  knowledge  of  my  state,  and 
regretted  that  I  had  gone  to  the  institution. 

In  my  personal  history  I  have  now  reached  the 
latter  part  of  the  winter  of  1867.  I  renuiined  at 
home  some  two  months,  until  the  weather  became 
somewhat  milder,  sharing,  meantime,  the  best  and 
most  careful  attention  of  a  mother's  loving  heart. 


BACK    TO    THE   INSTITUTION.  2G7 

The  terrible  change  in  my  condition,  which  was 
Bomewhat  like  going  from  the  sunlight  to  the  dun- 
geon, greatly  prostrated  me,  and  induced  sufiering 
both  of  a  mental  and  physical  nature.  But  with 
love  and  care  these  disadvantages  were  finally  over- 
come, and  I  felt  ready  to  return  once  more,  and  for 
the  final  year,  to  the  institution.  I  returned  more 
for  the  purpose  of  completing  my  trade  than  for 
further  study.  I  entered  the  brush  department^ 
determined  to  devote  myself  carefully  to  this  one. 
branch  of  business,  that  I  might  as  soon  as  possi- 
ble return  to  my  father's  home,  both  for  my  com- 
fort and  their  satisfaction.  I  gave  only  some  two 
hours  a  day  to  study,  dividing  my  time  between 
reading,  writing,  and  arithmetic,  branches  which 
would  be  to  me  of  practical  utility. 

The  time  passed  pleasantly,  and  the  summer  va- 
cation was  soon  upon  us;  indeed,  before  I  felt 
really  ready  for  it.  I  had  made  good  progress  in 
my  chosen  craft,  but  did  not  feel  myself  sufficient- 
ly qualified  without  a  few  months  of  further  in- 
struction. When  vacation  arrived  I  took  a  well- 
selected  stock  of  institution  work  to  my  home,  for 
sale  among  the  people.  As  before,  a  young  friend 
accompanied  me  and  shared  with  me  in  my  sales 
and  profits.  We  met  with  fine  encouragement  in 
our  sales,  disposing  of  nearly  our  entire  stock.  I 
began  to  feel  somewhat  lifted  up  from  the  valley 


^QS  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER    DAYS. 

of  extreme  depeudence  in  wliich  I  had  so  long  re- 
mained by  the  thought  of  contributing  to  some 
extent  toward  my  own  support.  Toil  sweetens 
life ;  and  this  is  no  trifling  part  of  the  compensation 
of  laljor.  One's  bread  is  much  more  palatable  for 
the  sweat  of  the  brow  and  the  labor  of  the  hands; 
and  if  it  is  a  curse,  which  we  greatly  doubt,  it  is 
transformed  by  a  gracious  Providence  into  a  pre- 
cious blessing.  To  the  man  whose  hands  are  hard- 
ened by  labor  life  is  less  irksome  and  burdensome, 
less  a  valley  of  darkness  and  more  a  mountain  of 
joy,  than  to  him  whose  unfortunate  independence 
lifts  him  above  humble  service  and  daily  toil.  The 
palatial  halls  of  the  noble  may  reflect  the  glory  of 
art,  and  their  walls  may  echo  with  the  finest  ar- 
tistic strains,  while  reveling  and  feasting  may  daily 
yield  the  soul  rich  transports  of  pleasure ;  yet  the 
poor  man's  cot  holds  the  larger  measure  of  real 
bliss  and  hallowed  content.  If  wealth  may  give 
7no7'e  pleasure  than  poverty,  yet  the  most  joy  and 
real,  solid  bliss  is  to  be  found  m  poverty  rather 
tliau  m  wealth.  An  even  exchange  with  the  rich 
would  be  attended  with  actual  sacrifice  on  the  part 
of  the  poor.  The  medium  lot  is  best  suited  to  the 
want  of  man  ;  and  were  we  wise,  we  would  more 
generally  pray  witli  Solmon,  "  Give  me  neither 
poverty  nor  riches." 

I  now  felt  more  anxious  than  ever  to  complete 


BACK   TO   THE  INSTITUTION.  26^ 

my  trade,  that  I  might  command  a  competencj 
for  myself,  and  by  my  labor  meet  my  own  want. 
With  this  end  in  view,  I  was  not  sorry  when  the 
vacation  months  were  gone,  and  when,  with  my 
companion,  I  could  turn  my  face  for  the  tinal  time 
toward  the  institution.  A  few  brief  months  sufficed 
for  this;  and  obtaining  an  outfit  both  of  material 
and  machinery,  for  which  I  was  largely  indebted 
to  the  benevolence  of  the  institution,  I  parted  com- 
pany with  my  old  and  dear  friends.  I  reluctantly 
took  the  parting  hand  of  my  companions.  I  was 
in  a  little  world,  each  member  of  which  could  give 
me  sympathy  such  as  those  who  knew  not  the 
ways  and  wants  of  the  blind  could  not  give.  Proper 
and  adequate  sympathy  can  come  only  from  mu- 
tual suffering.  When  the  young  mother  stood  over 
her  dead  child  many  friends  called  to  express  cor- 
dial sympathy,  and  each  said  and  did  what  she 
could;  but  when  that  mother  came  whose  sorrow 
and  experience  was  the  same  as  hers,  she  exclaim- 
ed, "Now  I  have  found  the  friend  I  want." 

The  teachers  and  officers  of  the  institution,  too, 
liad  endeared  themselves  to  my  heart;  and  it  was 
hard  to  bid  them  farewell.  No  institution  could 
be  more  fortunate  in  the  selection  of  its  directors 
than  the  Pennsylvania  Institution  for  the  Instruc- 
tion of  the  Blind ;  and  had  they  been  chosen  with 
reference  to  the  comfort  and  happiness  of  the  in- 


•270  THE   LIGHT    OF   OTHER   DATS. 

mates,  better  selections  could  not  have  been  made. 
I  owe  them  much,  and  wish  to  each  not  the  bless- 
ing of  my  lips  only,  but  the  benediction  of  God. 


APPROACHING  THE  VALLEY.         271 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

APPROACHING   THE    VALLEY. 

In  company  witli  a  young  gentleman  by  the  name 
of  Dunn,  I  returned  to  my  home,  where  we  formed 
a  partnership  for  the  manufacture  of  brooms  and 
brushes.  We  obtained  a  buikling  near  my  father's 
door,  which  we  litted  up  for  our  shop,  and  entered 
heartily  and  at  once  into  business  relations.  Mr. 
Dunn  was  a  fine  workman,  and  thus  was  an  ad- 
vantage to  me  in  the  direction  of  personal  im- 
provement. For  our  wares  we  had  a  ready  market 
in  the  surrounding  stores,  to  which  we  sold  mostly 
at  wholesale  rates. 

My  partner  was  also  a  good  violinist,  and  had, 
besides,  a  general  knowledge  of  music;  and 
from  him  I  also  soon  learned  to  handle  the  vi- 
olin with  considerable  skill.  This,  as  a  matter 
of  personal  cheer,  was  of  special  advantage  to  me. 
I  took  great  comfort  with  it  in  the  solitude  of 
home.  The  music  created  by  my  own  lingers  seemed 
to  feed  my  very  soul,  and  gave  relief  in  those 
darker  seasons  of  sorrow  and  despondency.  But 
that  which  God  intended  for  a  blessing  was  trans- 


272  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

formed  by  human  influences  into  a  snare  and  a 
curse.  My  nature  was  too  easily  aroused  and  too 
responsive  to  the  quick  and  lively  strains  of  the 
strings.  My  violin  became  a  stone  of  stumbling 
to  my  feet,  and  was  the  blind  guide  which  too 
nearly  led  one  poor  blind  man  into  the  yawning 
pit  and  the  jaws  of  cruel  moral  death.  I  have 
no  voice  of  condemnation  for  the  instrument;  for 
even  now  my  soul  loves  to  be  awakened  from  its 
chilling  dreams  b}'  its  inspiring  strains.  But  no 
instrument  so  besets  the  feet  of  mortals  with  mur- 
derous temptations,  and  none  has  won  for  the  evil 
one  so  large  a  harvest  of  precious  souls.  A  num- 
ber of  years  ago  a  young  violinist  was  brought  to 
Christ;  and  he  immediately  asked  his  minister, 
"  Shall  I  cast  away  my  violin  ?"  "  'No,"  said  his 
minister,  "  but  be  careful  in  the  selection  of  your 
tunes."  This  is  an  important  matter,  and  one  so 
diflicult  to  control  that  often  the  violin  had  better 
be  laid  aside.  At  least  it  is  not  wisdom  for  the 
child  of  God  to  nestle  in  his  bosom  a  viper  that  has 
poisoned  so  many  with  his  venomous  sting. 

I  had  now  become  considerably  reconciled  to 
my  condition,  and  found  that  complete  blindness, 
at  least  in  my  case,  was  far  better  than  partial 
sight  with  constant  sulfering  and  ill  health.  I 
found  that  even  a  blind  man  was  by  no  means  ex- 
cluded from  the  world  of  light  and  happiness,  and. 


APPROACHING  THE  VALLEY.         273 

that  from  the  increased  acuteness  of  touch  and 
hearing  the  dispossession  of  sight,  though  an  im- 
measurably great  affliction,  could  be  borne.     As 

"Darkness  shows  us  a  world  of  light 
We  never  see  by  day," 

So  blindness  gives  acuteness  to  the  powers  of  im- 
agination, which  makes  it  a  fruitful  realm  for  the 
soul.  The  world  knows  not  how  much  it  owes  to 
the  blindness  of  Milton;  for  it  is  certain  that  with 
continued  sight  "Paradise  Lost"  would  never  have 
been  written  by  him,  as  other  duties  would  have 
claimed  his  time  and  skill,  it  is  quite  evident,  too, 
that  with  his  sight  his  imagination  could  not  have 
produced  it.  Nor  must  it  be  forgotten  that  Homer, 
whom  common  consent  places  at  the  highest  pin- 
nacle of  poetic  excellence,  notwithstanding  the 
great  antiquity  of  his  age, — eight  hundred  years 
before  Christ, — was  shut  out  from  the  light  of  the 
world  by  blindness.  Handel  speaks  of  two  cele- 
brated musicians  that  were  blind.  From  under 
the  cover  of  blindness  many  sweet  voices  have 
spoken  w^ords ;  and  hands  undirected  by  sight  have 
performed  deeds  which  have  cheered  and  electrified 
the  universal  family. 

My  brother  Willie  was  a  constant  companion 
for  me,  and  administered  to  my  wants  in  a  thou- 
sand ways,  and  with  tenderest  love.  My  parents 
now  seemed  content,  in  that  I  was  so  near  to  them, 

18 


274  THE    LIGHT   OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

and  in  that  they  could  extend  to  me  their  watch- 
ful care.  Very  many  came  to  our  home,  drawn 
largely  by  the  curiosity  of  the  work  of  blind  men, 
80  that  it  was  hardly  ever  a  place  of  solitude  or 
gloom.  For  myself,  I  loved  company  better  than 
ever;  and  though  I  could  see  no  face,  yet  I  could 
not  bear  to  be  alone  for  even  tlie  l)riefest  time. 

My  partner  proved  anything  but  an  advantage 
to  me  in  many  ways.  He  had  been  raised  a  Cath- 
olic ;  and  though  devoted  theoreticall}-  to  that  faith, 
yet  he  was  not  largely  restrained  by  it  in  a  moral 
way.  He  was  an  inveterate  smoker,  and  occasion- 
ally used  the  flowing  bowl  to  excess.  He  was  also 
very  fond  of  light  company;  and  companions  (;f 
this  kind  were  often  and  much  of  the  time  in  our 
shop.  Parties,  too,  were  the  delight  of  his  soul, 
and  to  these,  in  company,  we  often  repaired.  Of 
course, the  violin  was  not  forgotten  by  either  of  us; 
and  until  the  midnight  hour,  and  often  until  the 
gray  light  of  morn  was  near,  we  measured  time 
for  the  giddy  trip  of  the  fantastic  toe.  My  eon- 
science  struggled  against  this  course  of  conduct  as  a 
great  impropriety,  and  my  parents  were  faithful  in 
their  protestations  and  warnings.  I  had  not  for- 
gotten the  resolution  of  the  year  before,  to  lead 
and  live  a  religious  life,  and  really  fancied  much 
of  the  time  that  I  was  in  fact  accepted  of  God.  I 
■would   attend  church  with  great  regularity,  but 


APPROACHING  THE  VALLEY.         275 

■mostly  as  a  mere  matter  of  form.  My  soul  did 
not  enter  into  the  worship  of  the  sanctuary,  though 
my  feet  wended  their  way  into  the  consecrated 
•house. 

My  parents  saw  that  my  companionship  was  not 
suited  to  my  want,  and  that  my  partnership  with 
Mr.  Dunn  must  be  terminated.  This  was  a  difii- 
■cult  thing  to  do.  From  my  heart  I  felt  a  profound 
interest  in,  and  no  small  friendship  for  him.  AVith 
•s'glit,  I  mig-ht  never  have  chosen  such  a  com]mn- 
ion;  but  in  our  mutual  blindness  I  could  unbosom 
my  soul  to  him  with  a  surprising  familiarity  and 
a  real  confidence.  He  could  in  many  ways  answer 
my  wants  better  than  almost  any  other,  because 
my  condition  was  better  understood  by  him.  But 
his  habits  of  dissipation  were  growing  upon  him; 
.and,  as  a  consequence,  his  spirit  was  losing  its  usual 
•amiability.  He  became  a  trouble  to  my  parents, 
and  brought  clouds  of  sorrow  over  our  home.  At 
the  end  of  a  year  our  partnership  was  dissolved, 
and  my  companion  went  forth  into  the  world  alone. 
Shortly  afterward  he  met  with  an  accident  which 
■disqualified  him  for  work,  and  the  alms-house  be- 
came the  home  of  my  old,  blind  friend. 

Although  my  companion  was  gone,  the  violin 
•was  left  behind ;  and  the  old  habits  he  had  helped 
me  to  form  were  not  to  be  easily  broken.  The 
hilarious  comrades  which  the  instrument  had  drawn 


276  THE   LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

about  US  were  still  often  witli  me,  and  persisted  on 
mj  continued  attendance  with  them.  Too  often^ 
for  the  cheer  of  their  com|i;uiy  and  the  trifling 
compensation  they  gave,  I  would  join  their  parties 
and  contribute  to  their  unreal  joys.  This  com- 
panionship continued  for  some  two  years,  during 
which  time  the  tendency  was  unmistakably  down- 
ward. The  violin,  although  attbrding  me  sweet- 
est possible  music,  was  leading  me  slowly  but 
steadily  and  surely  downward  into  the  valley  of 
deeper  darkness  and  certain  moral  death. 

In  the  providence  of  God,  a  change  of  location 
was  determined  on  by  my  father ;  and  though  the 
distance  was  but  a  mile,  yet  it  threw  me  into  an- 
other and  in  some  respects  better  neighborhood. 
It  took  from  me  largely  my  old  social  companions, 
and  led  me  to  depend  more  exclusively  upon  the 
single  and  blessed  companionship  of  Willie,  who 
in  his  devotion  was  faithfully  seconded  by  the 
other  home  friends.  My  mother,  as  she  was  able, 
became  my  companion  in  the  work  of  the  shop, 
while  Willie  also  assisted  in  a  variety  of  ways. 
He  also  became  the  salesman  of  my  goods,  and 
thus  entered  into  a  partnership  of  the  profits. 

My  sister  had  left  the  institution  at  the  time  of 
my  return  home,  and  for  two  years  our  family  had 
been  unbroken.     But  changes  were  soon  to  trans- 


APPROACHING  THE  VALLEY.         277 

pire,  and  the  family  circle  was  to  be  broken  for- 
ever. My  oldest  sister  had  consented  to  mar- 
riage with  a  gentleman  of  Philadelphia,  a  Mr. 
McGargle,  with  whom  she  soon  after  removed  to 
her  city  home.  In  the  following  year  another 
change  was  to  come;  another  link  was  to  be  taken 
from  the  family  chain.  The  festivities  of  a  wed- 
ding were  to  be  fo.llowed  by  the  solemnities  of  a 
death  and  the  horrid  gloom  of  a  burial.  My  dear 
brother  Willie,  in  whom  my  soul  was  delighting, 
was  gradually  but  surely  failing,  and  it  was  evi- 
dent that  the  dear  boy  could  not  long  remain  with 
us.  From  the  thought  of  his  death,  however,  my 
very  soul  recoiled.  He  was  eyes  to  his  blind  broth- 
er, and  a  willing,  loving  guide  for  my  weary  feet. 
But  we  must  not  anticipate  too  much. 

Upon  this  sea  of  gloom  let  us  drop  the  curtain 
for  a  time.  Anticipation  brings  sorrow  before  its 
time ;  and  too  often  we  court  the  immediate  pres- 
ence of  misery,  when  in  truth  it  is  a  long  way 
otl".  Until  the  darkness  comes  let  us  walk  in  the 
light,  and  cheer  our  hearts  with  the  music  of  the 
present. 

I  had  now  become  thin  and  worn  by  close  con- 
finement; and  1  longed  to  get  out,  both  for  a  change 
of  labor  and  the  fresh  air  of  heaven.  A  newspaper 
advertisement  for  book-agents  was  read  to  me.  I 
at  once  entered  the  service  of  the  house,  and  by 


278  THE   LIGHT   OF   OTHER   DAYS. 

the  help  of  a  boy  canvassed  the  surrounding  coun- 
try. This  business  I  followed  during  the  warm  sea- 
son with  special  advantage  to  my  health,  and  good 
pecuniary  profit.  In  bad  weather,  and  for  rest,  I 
would  occasionally  spend  a  few  days  in  the  shop ; 
and  when  winter  came  I  gave  my  full  attention  to 
brush-making.  During  my  summer  rambles  I  did 
not  have  the  companionship  of  Willie,  as  he  was 
not  able  to  endure  so  much  fatigue.  With  the 
change  of  weather  in  the  fall  his  cough  became- 
rapidly  worse,  and  soon  he  was  confined  contin- 
ually to  the  house.  Ko  more  should  he  lead  me 
forth,  and  no  more  direct  my  steps.  We  had 
strolled  together  for  the  final  time,  and  our  arm-in- 
arm pilgrimage  had  ended  at  last. 

A  Mrs.  Ford  made  her  home  in  our  house,  and 
manifested  much  religious  interest  in  Willie.  One 
day  she  said  to  me  as  I  sat  in  her  room,  "I 
fear  we  are  soon  to  lose  Willie.  Did  you  ever  say 
anything  to  him  of  his  future?"  I  was  saddened 
and  confused  b}^  the  solemn  confession  regarding 
my  brother,  and  the  question  propounded  to  me. 
I  said,  "  I  have  had  no  conversation  with  him ;  nor 
do  I  feel  that  I  can  speak  to  him  of  this  serious 
and  awful  matter.  I  much  wish,  Mrs.  Ford,  that 
you  would  do  this  service  for  me."  She  expressed 
a  desire  to  do  so,  and  requested  rae  to  bring  him 
to  her  room.     Poor  child !     I  felt  that  I  was  ta 


APPROACHING  THE  VALLEY.         279 

bring  him  to  a  solemn  court,  and  that  I  was  to  be 
the  means  of  increasing  his  sorrow.  He  well  knew 
that  his  case  was  alarming;  but  whether  he  had 
even  thought  of  dying,  I  did  not  know.  I  soon 
had  my  brother  at  the  lady's  side  for  the  sad  in- 
terview. She  talked  with  us  generally  about  the 
other  world,  and  sought  in  a  tender  manner  to 
impress  upon  us  the  fact  and  certainty  of  death. 
She  then  spoke  directly  of  Willie's  condition,  and 
of  the  possibility  of  an  early  death  in  his  own  case. 
Verily  my  heart  bled  within  me  for  the  poor  boy. 
It  seemed  almost  a  cruelty  that  such  words  should 
be  spoken;  and  yet  I  felt  sure  that  they  were  nec- 
essary. To  my  surprise,  and  my  relief  also,  he 
replied  to  Mrs,  Ford,  "  I  love  my  Savior,  and  am 
not  afraid  to  die."  We  were  all  overcome,  and 
wept  in  silence,  l^o  further  words  were  spoken 
then ;  and  no  other  words  needed  to  be  spoken.  I 
mourned  for  Willie,  and  yet  I  rejoiced  with  him.  He 
needed  pity  less  than  myself;  for  he  had  what  I  had 
not,  and  that  to  which  I  was  an  unhappy  stranger. 
Could  I  have  had  his  preparation,  as  I  felt  then,  I 
would  have  gladly  exchanged  my  condition  for  his. 
Further  frequent  and  extended  talks  were  had  with 
Willie  by  Mrs.  Ford,  in  which,  though  I  did  not 
participate,  my  soul  had  a  joyful  share.  .  If  we 
ourselves  are  unready  for  the  solemn  change  it  re- 
joices us  greatly  to  know  that  our  dear  friends  are 


280  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER    DAYS. 

thus  prepared.  Our  very  joy  over  another's  prep- 
aration but  indicates  its  value  and  necessity  for  us. 

Dear  Willie  often  inclined  to  talk  with  me  about 
heaven  and  our  angel  brother  on  the  other  shore ; 
but  I  was  in  no  frame  of  mind  to  encourage  such 
conversation.  I  repelled  the  dear  boy,  and  sought 
to  turn  his  thought  and  talk  in  other  ways.  I  re- 
joiced, nevertheless,  to  see  his  perfect  reconciliation, 
ar.d  did  not  doubt  his  complete  preparation  for  the 
solemn  ordeal  of  death  and  the  o-lories  of  the  oth- 
er  life. 

The  confinement  witlim  doors  was  speedily  fol- 
lowed by  close  confinement  to  his  bed  and  the  reduc- 
tion of  his  frail  form  to  a  state  of  complete  ema- 
ciation. We  were  often  called  to  his  bedside  to 
w^itness  what  we  feared  would  prove  the  actual 
approach  of  death.  At  last  the  cough  ceased,  and 
the  doctor  warned  us  that  now  the  end  was  near, 
and  that  at  any  day  or  hour  the  dear  child  might 
go  forth  to  the  unseen  though  not  distant  clime. 
A  night  of  semi-unconsciousness,  of  a  kind  which 
usually  precedes  death,  now  came  upon  Willie, 
and  we  were  all  silently  watching  in  expectation 
of  his  momentary  departure.  The  night  without 
was  wintry,  wild,  and  cold,  a  night  in  which  death 
would  clothe  itself  with  more  than  usual  gloom. 
He  was  lying  restlessly  upon  the  lounge,  and 
mother,  hoping  to  ease  her  dying  boy,  lifted  him 


APPROACHING  THE  VALLEY.         281 

gently  to  the  bed.  Suddeulj  lie  aroused  opened 
his  eyes,  and  said,  "Mother,  I  wish  to  see  Mr. 
Andrews."  The  doctor  had  frequently  called,  and 
had  added  much  to  my  brother's  peace  of  mind. 
But  now  the  valley  "was  near;  and  though  Willie 
had  therein  the  staff,  the  rod,  and  even  the  pres- 
ence of  God,  he  would  also  have  his  servant  near 
by.  It  was  God,  indeed,  that  divided  the  waters 
of  the  Jordan,  and  made  them  stand  as  a  heap 
above  the  advancing  Israelites;  and  yet  the  feet 
of  the  priests  must  tirst  touch  tliese  waters  before 
the  deed  was  done.  And  so,  in  the  providence  of 
God,  the  presence  of  his  chosen  ministers  helps 
even  now  to  divide  the  waters  of  death  before  his 
advancing  and  descending  children.  My  father 
went  hastily  for  Dr.  Andrews.  Meantime  Willie 
talked  much  to  us  all.  Mother  and  the  sisters 
were  weeping  bitterly,  when  our  dying  Willie 
said,  "Don't  weep  forme;  I  shall  soon  be  better 
off.  I  know  I  am  dying,  but  I  have  no  fears."  Mr. 
Andrews,  on  arriving,  went  to  his  bedside  and  took 
his  hand.  Willie  calmly  gave  the  doctor  a  message 
for  his  Sabbath-school  mates.  The  minister  pro- 
posed prayer,  when  Willie  said,  "Let  it  be  a  little 
child's  prayer."  After  the  prayer,  he  called  for 
me.  Advancing,  I  took  the  dying  brother's  hand 
and  whispered  in  his  ear,  "  Willie,  how  is  it  with 
you?"     He  replied,  "It  is  well,  and  I  will  soon  be 


282  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHEK   DAYS. 

safe  with  Brotlier  Ross."  A  moment's  silence  fol- 
lowed, after  which  he  reached  his  hands  upward, 
and  said,  "Hark!  Don't  you  hear  the  music? '* 
With  these  last  words,  with  a  countenance  lighted 
up  with  a  smile,  and  with  a  slight  shiver  that  but 
faintly  approached  a  struggle,  my  brother  Willie 
was  gone.  The  angels  had  come,  he  had  heard 
their  music,  and  he  had  gone  to  join  the  chorus  of 
the  heavenly  song.  The  silver  cord  was  loosed, 
the  golden  bowl  was  broken,  the  pitcher  was  broken 
at  the  fountain,  and  the  wheel  was  broken  at  the 
cistern.  His  hour  of  departure  was  a  fitting  one. 
The  storm  had  passed,  and  the  light  of  the  sun  was 
coming  upon  the  earth  for  us  as  the  light  of  glory 
broke  upon  the  deathless  soul  of  Willie. 

But  I  could  not  realize  that  Willie  was  dead, 
though  every  sign  of  death  was  about  me.  Friends 
were  calling,  preparations  were  being  made  for 
the  burial,  and  yet  the  fact  of  death  was  not  real 
to  me,  I  had  indeed  heard  the  farewell  word,  but 
I  had  not  seen  the  soul's  departure.  1  went  often 
to  his  room,  and  passed  my  hand  over  bis  cold, 
silent  form,  as  if  to  assure  myself  that  he  was 
really  dead.  I  was  in  awful  agony,  and  yet  I  could 
not  weep.  It  seemed  to  me  that  the  fountain  of 
my  tears  was  forever  dried,  and  that  for  lack  of 
weeping  my  soul  within  me  would  break.  Oh,  the 
relief    of    tears.      They   are,   indeed,   the   safety- 


APPROACHING    THE    VALLEY.  2S3- 

valves  of  the  heart  when  too  much  pressure  is  put 
upon  them.  Thus  the  full  heart  of  Christ  found 
relief  by  the  grave  of  Lazarus.  Doubtless,  too^ 
on  many  another  occasion  Jesus  found  relief  in 
tears.     If  their  Savior  wept,  well  may  poor  sinners 

weep. 

At  length  the  hour  for  burial  arrived ;  and  by 
the  side  of  our  now  encoffined  Willie  we  sat  in 
sorrow  for  the  funeral  service.  A  brief  discourse^ 
a  solemn  prayer,  and  we  were  in  our  carriages  for 
the  liual  resting-place  of  the  dead  boy.  The  coffin 
was  lowered,  a  few  words  of  impressive  weight 
followed,  and  then  the  friends  advanced  for  the 
last  sad  look  upon  the  casket  of  the  dear  dead. 
In  this  deeply- solemn  scene  only  the  eyes  of  my 
imagination  could  join.  At  last  the  final  word  of 
benediction  was  said,  and  Willie  was  left  to  sleep 
beside  his  brother  Eoss.  Until  the  voice  of  God 
is  heard  and  the  trump  of  the  archangel  shall 
sound,  their  sleep  shall  be  unawakened. 

The  reader  could  not  know  by  any  words  of 
mine  how  keenly  I  felt  the  death  of  my  brother 
Willie.  As  an  affliction,  his  death  was  next  to  the 
loss  of  my  sight.  I  felt,  indeed,  that  my  eyes  had 
been  newly  put  out,  for  the  dear  boy  was  eyes  to 
me.  He  who  stood  nearest  to  my  own  heart  in 
all  my  ways  had  fallen  at  my  side.  And  yet,  pos- 
sibly, in  the  providential  training  of  God,  this  af- 


284  THE   LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

fliction  was  a  step  for  my  recovery  and  redemption. 
Of  course  it  Avas  not  a  step  accomplished  for  that 
end,  and  yet  one  graciously  overruled  to  that  end. 
The  removal  of  my  father  from  the  old  neighbor- 
hood, and  the  departure  of  my  blind  companion, 
had  done  much  for  me ;  and  yet  Willie,  while  alive, 
had  been  a  connecting  link  with  me  to  my  old  and 
gay  companions.  Taking  me  forth  upon  the 
streets,  we  would  fall  in  company  with  them ;  and 
often  they  would  induce  Willie  to  go  home  and 
leave  me  with  them  and  in  their  care.  Consenting, 
I  was  thus  often  ensnared;  and  man}- long  hours 
of  the  night  I  would  foolishly  contribute  to  the 
unreal  pleasures  of  my  gay  companions.  But  now 
that  Willie  was  dead,  my  last  means  of  reaching 
this  class  was  gone.  I  was  forced  to  remain  at 
home,  or  go  but  seldom.  This  made  home  a  some- 
what solitary  and  lonely  place  to  me,  and  I  soon 
began  to  grow  uneasy. 


SALVATION.  285 


CHAPTER  XXXYI. 

SALVATION. 

I  concluded  to  canvass  again ;  and  going  one 
day  to  the  printing-office,  I  obtained  a  good  num- 
ber of  exchanges,  and  with  my  sister's  aid  exam- 
ined the  advertising  columns.  The  ISTew  "World 
Publishing  Company  called  for  agents  to  sell 
"  Olive  Logan's  Mimic  World,"  and  I  at  once  se- 
cured an  agency  covering  contiguous  towns.  Se- 
curing the  guidance  of  a  lad,  I  was  soon  in  suc- 
cessful business,*  and  began  to  gain  handsome  div- 
idends beyond  my  really  large  expenses.  Frequent 
complimentary  letters  came  from  the  company  ; 
and  finally  they  requested  an  interview  with  me. 
On  a  specified  time  their  manager,  Mr.  Vander- 
sloot, — a  gentleman  who  will  figure  conspicuously 
in  subsequent  pages, — called  to  see  me  at  my  home.. 
Tlie  kindness  and  general  cordiality  of  the  gentle- 
man favorably  impressed  me.  Another  book  was^ 
placed  in  my  hands  for  sale,  and  my  territory  was 
enlarged,  while  Philadelphia  became  the  head- 
qnarters  and  center  of  my  growing  business.     Mr.. 


286  THE   LIGHT    OF   OTHER   DATS. 

Yandersloot's  house  became  my  home  when  in  the 
■city.  This  was  a  wonderful  favor,  and  a  real  ad- 
vantage to  me.  I  was  now  general  agent;  and 
while  allowed  a  good  commission  on  my  personal 
sales,  I  also  derived  quite  a  dividend  from  those 
■of  my  agents.  I  was  personally  everywhere  kindly 
received,  and  sympathy  gave  me  ready  and  proht- 
able  sales. 

Mr.  Vandersloot  gave  very  strict  attention  to 
his  business,  and  would  on  no  account  leave  his 
post  of  duty  during  his  working-hours.  He  had 
a  strong  hold,  also,  on  the  fellowship  of  the  Prot- 
estant Episcopal  Church,  of  which  he  was  a  de- 
voted member.  After  business  hours,  however, 
he  sought  both  relaxation  and  pleasure;  and  sally- 
ing forth  of  an  evening  he  would  give  free  play  to 
liis  mirthful,  lively  spirits.  ISTor  would  he  hesitate 
to  enter  a  respectable  restaurant,  and,  like  the 
Oerman  that  he  was,  call  for  and  rejoice  in  his 
sparkling  lager.  I  really  liked  his  good  nature, 
and  could  heartily  join  in  his  jovial,  hilarious 
laugh,  while  his  tempting  beverage  I  could  accept 
with  special  relish.  Still,  I  could  not  but  think 
this  course  unbecoming  to  and  inexcusable  in  one 
professedly  a  Christian  ;  and  it  went  very  far  to  neu- 
tralize not  only  my  confidence  in  him  as  a  gentleman, 
but  also  his  influence  over  me  as  a  Christian.  A 
trifling  act  of  impropriety  will  often  neutralize  the 


SALVATION.  2S7 

full  po^yer  of  a  Cliristian  life ;  and  hence  the  neces- 
sity of  guarding  carefully  our  simplest  word  and 
deed.  Mr.  Yandersloot  himself,  as  we  shall  see, 
lived  to  realize  the  importance  of  this  fact. 

Finally,  the  books  that  I  was  handling  growing 
rather  stale  on  my  hands,  I  concluded  to  handle 
others  for  a  time.  I  thus  transferred  my  interest 
to  another  house,  and  bid  a  present  farewell  to  the 
home  of  Mr.  Yandersloot.  I  was  now  on  the  road 
more  than  heretofore,  and  rarely  in  the  city.  I 
was  generally  stopping  at  hotels,  and  found  my 
companionship  to  be,  as  a  rule,  anything  but  profit- 
able to  myself.  Several  months  passed,  during 
which  time  I  rarely  ever  thought  of  my  old  and 
true  friend,  Mr.  Yandersloot.  In  the  fall,  however, 
I  was  in  the  city  again,  and  at  my  hotel  met  with 
an  old,  jovial  friend  of  other  days.  After  tea,  we 
took  our  cigar  and  sauntered  forth  for  a  chat  and 
a  walk,  and  finally  concluded  to  turn  into  the  the- 
ater. Before  separating  for  the  evening  we  had 
fallen  in  company  with  another  jovial  friend;  and 
together  we  arranged  to  attend  tlxe  theater  of  the 
following  evening.  After  the  theater  we  proposed 
to  have  a  specially  good  time,  as  the  judgment  of 
the  world  would  determine  it.  My  companions 
were  both  gay,  and  a  brilliant  time  was  anticipated. 
In  the  morning  my  friend  had  to  leave  the  hotel 
for  special  business;  and  being  left  alone,  I  hardly 


288  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS 

knew  how  to  spend  the  time.  The  thought  soon 
occurred  to  me,  however,  to  hunt  up  my  old  friend 
and  helper,  Mr.  Vandersloot,  Accordingly,  I  took 
the  street-car,  and  soon  found  myself  at  his  place 
of  business,  where  he  was,  as  usual,  hard  at  work. 
He  was  now  engaged  in  puldisliing  "  The  Inspired 
Life  of  Christ,"  a  work  which  presented  the  Sav- 
ior's life  wholly  in  Bible  language.  Though  hard 
at  work,  he  cordially  entertained  me  for  the  day; 
but  his  conversation  covered  social  and  business 
matters  exclusively.  We  dined  down  town ;  but 
at  the  close  of  work-hours  he  insisted  that  I 
should  go  home  with  him  for  tea.  I  at  lirst  ob- 
jected, insisting  that  a  previous  engagement  made 
it  an  actual  impossibility ;  but  as  he  so  earnestly 
insisted,  I  finally  consented  to  go.  And  this  re- 
luctant decision,  in  the  providence  of  God,  was  the 
pivotal  act  of  ni}'  life.  Immense  and  everlasting 
consequences  depended  upon  that  decision  and 
clustered  around  that  moment.  To  accompany 
Mr.  Vandersloot  to  his  home  for  tea  was  to  be 
worth  more  than  the  value  of  a  world  to  me.  It 
was  seemingly  but  a  triiie  in  my  way;  and  yet,  as 
Napoleon  remarked,  "Men  are  led  by  trifles." 
On  another  occasion  he  said,  "What  mighty  con- 
tests arise  from  trivial  things."  But "  trifles  make 
perfection,"  and  "  the  smallest  hair  casts  its  shad- 
ow," so  that  it  is  not  very  strange  that  even  the  ac- 


SALVATION.  280 

ceptance  of  an  invitation  to  tea  should  nave  given 
a  new  tinge  to  the  whole  of  m}-  coming  life.  How 
this  was  done  we  are  to  see. 

AVhile  we  were  at  tea  a  Mr.  Fox    called;  and 
after  an  introduction  I  insisted  on  taking  my  leave, 
owing  to  nn-  engagement.     Mr.  Yandersloot,  how- 
ever,  objected,  saying  that  they  were  both  going 
down  town,  and  I  should  accompany  them.     With 
crrtat    reluctance    I    consented,  and    together    we 
started  down  the  street.     The  cars  were  passing, 
and  I  wondered  that  no  motion  was  made  toward 
tln.^m.     1  should  here  observe  that  in  the  spirit  of 
Mr.  VuiidcTsloot   I  noticed  a  remarkable  change, 
the   natur:'   ot  which   I  could  hardly  explain,  and 
t  ;•'  reason  for  which  I  could  not  understand.     He 
was  still  cordial  and  social  in  the  extreme,  but  the 
tritlinir  sr>irit  was  gone;  and  there  was  a  somewhat 
solemn  and  very  serious  expression  in  his  general 
manner.     He  had  said  nothing  to  me  of  rehgion, 
and  nothing  of  his  own  religious  convictions  and 
life.     Still,  he  felt  in  his  heart  an  intense  interest 
in  my  religious  well-being;  and  while  longing  in- 
expressibly for  my  redemption,  he  determined  to 
make  no  personal  advance,  but  rather  to  bring  me 
within  the  influence  of  a  moral  power  which  I  should 
not  be  able  to  resist.     There  was  wisdom  in  this 
course,  especially  in  my  case;  and  Mr.  Vandersloot 
presented  an   example  deserving  of  careful  imita- 
tion. 

19 


290  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

Theodore  Cuyler  speaks  of  a  child  whose  moth- 
er, a  member  of  his  church,  was  a  binder  of  shoes. 
One  day  this  child  took  work  to  the  merchant  from 
her  mother,  and  ventured  to  invite  him  to  their 
weekly  prayer-meeting.  He  promised  to  attend, 
and  kept  his  promise.  The  attendance  resulted  in 
his  conversion,  and  .in  the  beginning  of  a  mighty 
reformation.  The  little  girl  led  the  man  to  the 
place  where  Jesus  could  meet  him.  We  too  often 
trust  in  our  own  mere  word,  when  the  soul  stands 
in  need  of  the  influence  of  the  altar  within  the 
sanctuary.  An  invitation  to  the  house  of  God 
should  be  the  daily  salutation  of  God's  children  to 
the  wandering,  careless  sinner.  The  world  is  wait- 
ing to  come  to  Jesus;  but  the  church  is  too  gener- 
ally withholding  the  simple,  personal  call.  God 
spreads  the  feast;  let  us  lead  our  friends  thereto, 
that  they  may  be  fed. 

Mr.  Fox  finally  inquired  of  me  as  to  my  church 
relationship,  with  the  thought,  doubtless,  of  lead- 
ino;  me  into  a  relio'ious  conversation.  Mr.  Van- 
dersloot,  however,  had  determined  on  another  plan, 
and  relieved  me  by  instantly  replying:  "Mr. 
Smith's  folks  are  members  of  the  Presl)yterian 
Church."  We  now  turned  from  the  sidewalk  and 
ascended  several  stone  steps,  when  we  paused. 
Several  persons  passed  quickly  up  the  steps,  and  on 
by  us;  and  I  inquired  of  Mr.  Yandersloot,  "What 


SALVATION.  291 

place  is  this?"  He  astonished  me  by  replying, 
"This  is  the  Twefth-Street  Methodist  Episcopal 
Church."  "What  is  going  on  here,  Mr.  Yander- 
sloot?"  I  asked.  "There  is  a  class-meeting  here 
to-night,"  was  the  answer.  "What  kind  of  a 
class-meeting V"  said  I,  in  utter  ignorance  of  the 
nature  of  such  a  meeting.  "A  Methodist  class- 
meeting.  Were  you  ever  in  one?"  oaid  he.  On 
iinswering  that  I  had  never  been  in  such  a  place, 
he  said,  "Well,  then,  come  in  for  once."  "Xot 
to-night,"  said  I;  "for,  as  you  know,  I  have  an 
engagement."  "What  is  the  hour  of  your  ap- 
pointment?" Mr.  Yandersloot  inquired.  "Eight 
o'clock,  at  the  farthest,"  said  I.  "  Oh,  well,"  said 
he,  "it  is  only  seven  now;  come  in  for  awhile." 
I  very  reluctantly  consented,  and  went  into  the 
house  very  much  confused  and  abashed,  failing  en- 
tirely to  understand  this  strange  conduct  of  my 
old  Episcopal  friend.  There  were  some  thirty  per- 
sons in  the  room — the  ladies  arranged  on  the  one 
side  and  the  gentlemen  on  the  other.  The  leader 
opened  the  meeting,  and  after  prayer  related  his 
personal  experience.  He  then  called  on  the  ladies 
in  order,  from  each  of  wdiom  came  a  word  of  per- 
sonal experience.  When  I  went  in  I  had  deter- 
mined to  leave  the  room  as  soon  as  the  meeting 
■was  fairly  opened;  but  for  some  reason  or  other  I 
had  lost  the  direction   of  the  door.     For  the  life 


292  THE   LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

of  me  I  could  not  tell  by  which  direction  we  had 
entered  the  house.  In  this  confusion  of  mind  I 
dare  not  start;  and  a  slight  spirit  of  dissatisfaction 
with  the  course  of  Mr.  Yandersloot  determined 
me  not  to  ask  his  aid,  so  I  sat  quietly,  but  for  a 
time  in  a  state  of  semi-desperation. 

However,  as  soon  as  the  ladies  began  to  speak, 
and  the  voice  of  exhortation  was  alternated  with 
that  of  song,  1  became  deeply  interested  and  some- 
what seriously  afiected.  I  began  to  see  that  every 
one  in  the  room  was  speaking  in  order;  and  the 
thought  that  I  might  be  expected  to  say  something 
threw  me  into  a  state  of  terrible  agitation.  After 
the  ladies  were  through  speaking  the  first  leader 
retired  from  the  stand,  and  an  old  man  took  charge 
of  the  class.  During  the  most  part  of  his  life  he 
had  followed  the  sea,  and  not  until  he  was  an  old 
man  had  he  found  the  blessed  peace  of  religion. 
His  talk  covered  his  personal  experience,  and  to 
me  it  was  absolutely  wonderful.  It  charmed  me, 
and  took  deep  hold  upon  my  soul,  melting  me  ir- 
resistibly to  tears.  There  were  only  three  men  on 
my  right,  while  Mr.  Vandersloot  was  the  first  on 
my  left.  He  said  to  me  in  a  whisper,  "When 
It  comes  your  turn  you  must  speak."  "  Oh,  no," 
said  I,  horror-struck ;  "  I  must  be  excused."  "No,, 
sir,"  said  he,  "we  excuse  nobody  here;  you  must 
speak."     I  was  both  tried  and  dumbfounded,  and 


SALVATION.  293 

HOW  began  to  see  that  I  was  truly  in  a  moral  trap, 
and  one  which  my  peculiar  friend  had  strangely 
laid  for  me.  The  situation  seemed  an  impossible 
one ;  and  the  conduct  of  Mr.  Yandersloot  was  ab- 
solutel}'  beyond  the  reach  of  interpretation.  Had 
he  been  on  ray  right  side  instead  of  my  left,  I 
should  have  felt  a  world  of  relief;  for,  most  of  all, 
I  wished  an  open  door  to  his  soul,  and  a  vision  of 
his  moral  feelings. 

The  first  man  was  now  speaking,  and  soon,  the 
man  next  to  me  had  spoken ;  and  after  the  song, 
the  silence  of  death  began  its  reign.  They  were 
waiting  for  me;  and  Mr.  Yandersloot,  by  tender 
iiude-incf,  was  reminding-  me  of  the  fact.  But  I 
determined  not  to  move;  that  the  silence  should 
not  be  broken  by  me.  All  eyes  were  upon  me,  as  I 
knew;  and  I  burned  with  shame  and  confusion. 
If  I  would  not  break  the  silence,  the  dear  old  man 
would  do  so  himself.  He  advanced  to  my  side  and, 
placing  his  hand  tenderly  on  my  head,  said,  "  Young 
man,  can  you  not  say  one  word  for  Jesus — not  one 
word  for  Jesus?"  It  was  the  voice  of  a  patriarch, 
and  seemed  to  me  like  God's  own  appeal  to  my  . 
soul.  It  was  too  much  for  me;  and  while  it  al- 
most l)roke  the  heart  within  me,  it  also  brought 
me  to  my  feet.  I  dared  not  refuse  to  rise.  I  felt 
myself  lifted  up  by  a  mysterious  I'oy.er.  I  would 
hardly  now  have  kept  my  seat  for  a  world.     I  made 


294  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

several  ineffectual  attempts  to  speak,  but  my  ut- 
terance was  choked  with  fear  and  emotion.  But 
I  finally  said,  in  substance,  "•  I  am  not  a  Christian  ^ 
but  I  hope  some  time  to  be,  and  am  fully  determin- 
ed yet  to  leave  the  world  of  sin  and  flee  to  Jesus,, 
that  when  weighed  in  the  balances  in  the  tinal  day 
I  may  not  be  found  wanting.  Pray  for  me;  I  am  a 
poor,  needy  sinner," 

When  I  requested  prayers  I  supposed  only  that 
they  would  remember  me  at  their  homes ;  and  in 
the  thought  of  thus  transferring  my  case  T  felt  a. 
special  relief.  But  the  old  man  could  see  through, 
my  case  clearly,  and  knew  just  my  want.  He- 
proposed  to  carry  toward  completion  a  work  so- 
unexpectedly  introduced.  He  saw  the  condition 
of  the  patient,  and  knew  what  remedy  the  case- 
demanded,  and  that  death  was  sure  to  follow  as 
the  result  of  its  continuance.  He  addressed  some 
soothing  and  helpful  words  to  me,  as  he  had  done 
to  others  who  in  their  experiences  had  developed 
special  want;  but  he  was  not  satisfied  there  and 
thus  to  rest  his  case.  That  I  was  brought  to  an 
earthly  friend,  was  much ;  but  this  earthly  friend 
would  bear  me  in  his  own  arms  to  the  arms  «  f 
Jesus.  "  This  case,"  said  he,  "  demands  immediate- 
attention  ; "  and  down  the  old  man  kneeled  before- 
me  for  prayer.  Such  a  prayer  I  had  never  heard 
before,  never  have   I  since,  nor  shall  I,  indeed^ 


SALVATION.  295 

from  mortal  lips.  It  was  a  qniet,  earnest  talk  with 
God,  and  for  me;  a  lift  heavenward,  such  as  I  had 
never  had. 

Following  this  prayer  Mr.  Vandersloot  spoke. 
He  referred  to  the  reluctance  with  which  I  came 
into  the  church,  but  now  hoped  and  believed  that 
all  of  my  objections  were  removed.  He  thank- 
ed God  for  the  first  class-meeting  he  had  ever 
attended;  felt  sure  that  in  God's  hands  it  had 
proved  the  means  of  his  conversion,  and  hoped 
it  might  prove  as  much  of  a  blessing  to  me. 
He  referred  to  his  last  meeting  with  me,  and 
to  his  former  general  life  before  me,  saying  that 
he  could  now  see  that  it  had  not  been  what  it 
should  have  been.  By  this  talk  I  was  much 
moved,  and  thereby  began  to  get  an  insight  into 
his  present  religious  nature.  But  if  I  was  moved 
by  his  talk,  much  more  dee[)ly  was  I  affected  by 
his  prayer;  for  he  now  knelt  by  my  side  and  of- 
fered to  God  a  fervent  petition  in  my  behalf.  After 
the  other  gentlemen  had  spoken,  several  fervent 
prayers  were  ottered  specially  for  me,  following 
which  the  meeting  was  closed.  We  did  not  leave 
the  house,  however,  until  many  cordial,  Christian 
words  had  been  spoken  to  me  by  dilierent  ones. 

I  had  attended  a  very  strange  meeting;  and  its 
results  had  wonderfully  surprised  me,  for  they  were 
even  unthought  of.     I  firmly  supposed  I  should 


296  THE   LIGHT    OF    OTHEK   DAYS. 

spend  the  evening  at  the  theater,  and  with  carous- 
ing friends ;  but  God  had  arrested  me  in  my  course 
— not  as  he  did  Paul,  but  as  effectually  as  he  had 
reached  him.  With  all  my  conlidence  in  and  es- 
teem for  Mr.  Vandersloot,  it  is  doubtful  whether 
he  could  have  reached  or  even  touched  my  heart 
with  any  personal  words  during  the  day.  The 
conversation  sought  by  Mr.  Fox  on  the  way  to 
church  would  perhaps  have  opened  my  eyes,  or  at 
least  have  repelled  me  to  my  religious  hurt.  If 
Mr.  Vandersloot  had  even  remotely  suggested 
the  idea  of  spending  the  evening  at  a  Methodist 
class-meeting,  I  should  have  instantly  aud  stub- 
bornly resisted  and  rejected  the  idea.  He  had 
reached  me  by  the  only  route  open  to  my  soul ;  and 
I  hesitate  not  to  say  that  in  all  his  procedure  I 
believe  deiinitely,  and  though  perhaps  unconscious- 
ly, he  was  led  of  God. 

The  meeting  itself  was  the  religious  modus  op- 
erandi that  my  soul  needed  for  its  own  proper  im- 
pression. I  had  never  been  in  such  a  meeting; 
nor  bad  I  ever  seeu  such  a  reHection  of  human  ex- 
perience or  such  a  beautiful  unfolding  of  the  re- 
ligious life.  I  saw  the  beauties  of  the  Christian 
brotherhood  and  the  sweet  glories  of  the  Chris- 
tian family  as  I  had  never  seen  or  even  dreamed 
of  them  before.  I  learned  that  the  spirit  of  relig- 
ion could  subdue  the  heart  of  stone  and  transform 


SALVATION.  297 

the  soul  of  siu  as  the  simple  abstract  truth  and 
formal  theory  of  religion  could  not.  Several  of 
the  sisters  had  confessed  their  sorrows  and  lifted 
the  veil  that  concealed  their  troubles  from  the  eye 
of  the  world,  and  the  leader  had  responded  in 
words  of  comfort  and  consolation  that  had  refresh- 
ed them  and  edified  all.  For  all  time,  I  was  con- 
vinced of  the  utility  and  moral  efiectiveness  of 
such  a  class  of  meetings,  and  of  sucli  a  system  of 
religious  and  social  work.  What  bad  proved  so 
great  a  blessing  to  me  mast,  I  thought,  be  a  special 
blessing  to  all. 

In  my  heart  I  must  say  I  reluctantly  left  that 
house  of  God.  If  I  had  gone  in  with  hesitation, 
I  was  going  forth  with  greater  misgivings.  I  was 
now  fully  persuaded  of  my  want,  and  yet  as  fully 
convinced  that  that  deep  want  was  as  yet  unmet. 
On  the  way  liome  it  seemed  strange  to  me  that 
Mr.  Yandersloot  said  nothing  of  the  meeting  and 
made  no  special  reference  to  religious  matters.  A 
few  general  words  only  l»roke  the  otherwise  nn- 
broken  silence  of  the  home^vard  walk.  When  we 
arrived  at  home  he  took  down  the  old  family  Bible, 
and  after  reading  a  chapter  offered  his  usual  prayer. 
The  fact  that  he  had  spent  the  evening  at  God's 
house  and  had  there  joined  in  prayer  and  praise  did 
not  excuse  his  usual  family  devotion.  He  was  the 
priest  of  his  own  family,  and  would  not  sutler  the 


298  THE   LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

evening  sacrifice  to  be  forgotten  or  allow  the  fire 
to  die  out  upon  the  altar.  In  this,  too,  he  gave 
the  world  an  example  that  may  with  safety  have 
imitation. 

How  strange  all  this  seemed  to  me,  and  how  this 
new  form  of  devotion  added  to  my  personal  con- 
viction. If  he  had  carelessly  spent  the  last  hour 
of  evening,  or  had  even  gone  to  his  room  for  rest 
without  prayer,  perhaps  the  work  of  the  Spirit 
w^ould  have  been  stayed  in  my  case.  On  retiring, 
he  also  proposed  to  room  with  me,  as  he  had  often 
done  when  I  was  an  inmate  of  his  home.  Getting 
to  our  room,  he  went  directly  to  bed  and  was  soon 
asleep.  His  conscience  was  at  rest,  and  he  was 
soon  reposing  in  his  Master's  arms.  I  did  not 
think  of  retiring  at  once,  but  sat  in  my  chair  for 
meditation.  It  seemed  impossible  to  make  the 
preparation  for  retirement.  The  words,  "  choose 
ye  this  day  whom  ye  will  serve,"  were  ringing  in 
my  ears,  and  were  before  my  eyes  as  though  writ- 
ten upon  the  wall  in  letters  of  flaming  light.  I 
was  crushed  under  the  load  of  conviction,  and  was 
longing  in  vain  for  relief.  Objections  to  my  con- 
templated consecration  arose  in  my  mind.  "  What 
will  my  young  friends  say,"  thought  I.  "Will  it 
not  do  for  me  to  lead  simply  a  moral  life?  If  I 
give  up  all  to  Christ  now  will  I  not  wound  the 
cause  by  going  back  again  into  the  world?" 


SALVATION.  2}& 

Perhaps  Satan  never  suggested  to  the  sinner  a. 
more  foolish  and  sophistical  excuse  than  this  last 
one  mentioned.  The  idea  that  because  a  failure 
would  wound  the  cause  of  Christ,  therefore  the  at- 
tempt toward  the  Christian  life  had  better  not  be 
made!  Indeed,  better  continue  heartily  in  sin  for 
the  whole  life  than  to  even  make  an  effort  to  break 
off  one's  sins  !  The  crime  of  backsliding  is  great; 
yet  it  is  not  so  great  as  the  uninterrupted  contin-^ 
uance  in  sin.  I  would  lead  a  man  to  Christ  if  he 
served  him  but  a  month.  If  for  that  time  only  he 
did  not  sin,  or  by  the  help  of  God  tried  not  to  sin, 
Satan  would  meet  with  some  loss,  and  the  soul 
would  make  some  gain.  Even  he  who  can  keep 
down  and  put  back  the  growth  of  a  weed  has  done 
some  good,  even  though  he  may  not  wholly  up- 
root it.  But  whatever  one  may  think  of  "  once  in 
grace  always  in  grace,"  we  confidently  think  that 
the  cases  of  actual  and  complete  backsliding,  where- 
the  soul  has  really  been  born  of  the  Spirit,  are  at 
least  very  rare.  Even  though  there  be  a  seeming 
falling  away,  the  Spirit  is  apt  to  finally  reclaim  its- 
own. 

At  last  I  advanced  toward  the  bed,  thinking  to 
retire.  I  but  reached  the  foot  railinsr,  and  leaning 
over  it  it  seemed  that  I  could  go  no  farther.  It 
appeared  to  me  that  for  my  soul  the  last  opportu- 
nity had  come.     I  must  fully  surrender  now,  or 


500  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DATS. 

perhaps  I  should  never  surrender.  I  determined, 
while  the  clock  struck  two,  that  I  would  now  and 
forever  be  a  Christian.  Mr.  Yandersloot  was 
peacefully  sleeping,  wholly  unaware  of  the  terrible 
struggle  into  which,  as  Grod's  agent,  he  had  thrown 
my  poor  soul.  I  advanced  to  his  side  and  awoke 
him.  I  told  him  of  my  distress,  and  of  my  pur- 
pose. He  arose,  and  we  knelt  in  prayer.  We 
spent  a  half  hour  or  so  in  alternate  prayer.  At 
last  peace  came,  and  the  cloud  departed.  I  could  see 
for  once  as  I  had  7iever  seen.  We  retired  for  rest; 
and  though  the  night  was  now  short,  1  was  soon 
in  the  most  peaceful  and  refreshing  sleep  I  had 
ever  had.  In  the  morning  the  usual  family  Avor- 
ship  transpired  ;  but  no  reference  was  made  to  the 
night  before  and  its  solemn  work,  although  the 
family  well  understood  it  all.  They  were  wisely 
allowing  the  Spirit  to  do  its  own  work.  Mr.  Yan- 
dersloot took  me  to  his  office  for  the  day,  and  on 
the  way  we  met  Mr.  Fox.  I  frankly  told  him  of 
the  occurrences  of  the  night  before,  at  which  he 
expressed  much  joy  and  assured  me  of  liis  fervent 
prayers. 

Arriving  at  the  office,  Mr.  Yandersloot  relatofl 
to  me  a  brief  and  explanatory  chapter  of  his  per- 
sonal experience.  A  few  months  before  he  hap- 
pened to  be  in  a  Methodist  class-meeting;  and 
from  the  warm,  cordial  spirit  of  the  worshipers, 


SALVATION.  oOl 

and  the  large,  rich  nieasarement  of  their  joj,  he 
was  satisfied  that  they  had  what  he  had  not,  and 
yet  something  that  he  greatly  needed.  He  laft 
the  place  determined  on  fervent  prayer  for  a  fur- 
ther and  complete  change  of  lieart.  He  had  not 
prayed  in  vain,  but  had  soon  found  the  very  change 
for  which  he  sought;  and  that  he  might  live  in 
the  atmosphere  that  had  begotten  the  desire  for 
this  change,  and  give  his  heart  fully  to  the  blessed 
work  of  saving  men,  he  had  changed  his  church 
relationship,  and  united  with  the  Methodists. 
Xow  he  felt  as  though  he  was  working  for  Christ, 
■\vhile  his  life  was  one  of  immeasurable  peace.  His^ 
talk  fully  sufficed  to  lift  the  curtain;  and  I  no 
longer  wondered  at  his  anxiety  for  me,  nor  at  the 
course  he  had  pursued.  If  I  had  had  bitter  feel- 
ings and  measurable  indignation  against  the  man. 
eighteen  hours  before,  the  bitter  feelings  were  now 
sweetened,  and  the  rising  cloud  of  indignation  had 
given  way  to  a  clear  sky.  If  I  had  condemned,  I 
now  blessed  the  man.  and  accepted  him  as  my  God- 
given  benefactor 


■302  THE    LIGUT    OF    OTHER    DAYS. 


CHAPTER  XXXYII. 

AMONG   THE   METHODISTS. 

In  the  evening  we  went  to  Mr.  Vandersloot's 
own  church-home, — St.  Pauls  Methodist  Episco- 
pal Church, — where  Mr.  Welch,  the  pastor,  was 
holding:  a  series  of  revival-meetinors.  He  preached 
a  plain,  earnest  sermon  on  "  The  True  Foundation  or 
Basis  of  the  Christian  Life,"  at  the  close  of  which 
he  invited  souls  to  the  altar.  I  felt  that  I  wanted 
to  be  at  the  altar  of  prayer;  and  Mr.  Yandersloot 
led  me  up  among  the  mourners  and  seekers.  Aft- 
er earnest  prayers,  several  spoke  kindly  and  en- 
couragingly to  me;  and  yet  I  felt  that  in  spirit,  if 
not  in  word,  they  had  not  what  I  wanted.  Then 
an  old  man  came  to  me  and  said,  "  My  brother, 
what  is  your  trouble?"  His  spirit  touched  me,  and 
I  felt  to  exclaim,  "  Sir,  you  are  the  man  I  want  to 
talk  with."  I  said,  "  I  have  peace,  but  hot  feeling 
enough."  Said  he,  "  Trust  in  God,  have  faith,  be- 
lieve his  promises,  press  your  case  in  prayer,  and 
feeling  will  come  in  good  time,  as  you  may  need." 


AMONG    THE    METHODISTS.  303 

His  words  did  me  a  world  of  good,  and  mostly, 
perhaps,  because  of  the  spirit  of  sympathy  in  which 
they  were  spoken. 

It  was  not  tlie  'power  of  Christ  that  drew  the 
multitude,  even  though  tliat  power  could  restore 
lost  senses,  lost  health,  and,  indeed,  lost  life;  but  it 
was  the  love  and  sympathy  of  Christ.  Even  yet 
his  love  constraineth  us.  We  feel  that  in  him 
*'wehavea  faithful  High-priest,  one  that  can  be 
touched  with  the  feelings  of  our  infirmities.  Christ 
has  the  fullest  confidence  of  mankind  because  of 
this.  The  world  to-day  most  Jieeds  love  and  sym- 
pathy from  its  fellows;  and  the  power  to  win  men 
is  in  these  beautiful  expressions.  A  child  in  Chi- 
cago was  in  the  habit  of  going  five  miles  to  his 
Sunday-school,  passing  thirty  other  schools  to 
reach  his  own.  When  remonstrated  with  for  the 
folly  of  his  course,  he  simply  remarked,  "They 
love  a  fellow  over  there."  Love  made  his  five- 
mile  walk  a  pastime.  In  the  light  of  the  flame  of 
love  men  will  endure  all  dangers,  and  yield  their 
wealth,  their  stations,  and  their  lives  as  an  ofler- 
ing. 

A  London  clergyman  explains  how  by  the  light 
and  power  of  a  smile  he  led  an  entire  family  to 
his  church  and  to  Christ,  Passing  a  window 
one  day  on  his  way  to  Sabbath-school  and  church, 
he  met  the  gaze  of  a  sweet  child,  to  whom  he  ex- 


304  THE   LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

tended  a  smile.  The  next  Sabbatli  the  same  child 
was  at  the  window,  for  whom  he  had  another  smile 
of  love.  The  third  Sabbath  there  were  several 
children  at  the  window,  on  whom  he  smiled  as  he 
passed.  But  looking  back  after  passing,  he  saw 
these  three  children  following  him.  They  entered 
his  church  and  took  their  places  in  his  school  as- 
scholars.  The  next  Sunday  the  parents  were  at 
his  place  of  worsliip;  and  within  a  few  months 
they  were  members  of  his  church,  on  confession 
of  faith  in  Christ.  He  had  won  the  whole  family 
for  his  Master  by  a  smile.  There  is  power  in  love; 
and  its  sunshine  should  illumine  the  world. 

I  was  now  satisiied  with  my  acceptance,  and  be- 
lieved that  my  sins  were  blotted  out.  The  "al- 
most persuaded"  was  exchanged  at  last  for  the 
"  fully  persuaded."  I  knew  that  I  had  passed  from 
death  unto  life,  and  that  I  was  a  child  of  God. 
Blessed  assurance,  the  value  of  which  to  me  could 
not  be  expressed  by  mountains  of  silver  and  hills- 
of  gold.  I  had  what  the  world  had  not,  and  what 
the  world  could  not  bestow.  The  sweet  hope  of 
childhood  had  been  long  deferred;  but  it  was  real- 
ized at  last  in  early  manhood.  Why  I  had  not  be- 
fore fully  surrendered  was,  and  must  continue  to 
be,  the  great  mystery  of  my  life.  But  I  could  now 
sing,  "  Saved  at  last; "  and  my  soul  rejoiced  greatly 
and  gratefully  in  the  song. 


AMONG   THE   METHODISTS.  805 

For  several  days  I  remained  at  Mr.  Vandersloot's, 
attending  the  meetings  of  Mr.  Welch  at  night, 
and  greatly  enjoying  them.  Finally,  Mr.  Welch 
proposed  that  I  should  unite  with  his  church.  I 
said,  "I  can  not,  as  in  all  things  I  do  not  indorse 
your  belief  as  a  people."  "  That  shall  be  no  bar 
to  our  fellowship,"  said  he.  "  Accept  a  home  with 
us  for  your  safety  and  help,  and  when  hereafter 
you  lind  a  home  more  suited  to  your  convictions 
and  feelings  we  will  give  you  both  a  letter  and 
our  blessing."  From  such  professed  fellowship  I 
could  not  withhold  my  hand,  and  I  gratefully  ac- 
cepted a  home  in  St.  Pauls  Methodist  Episcopal 
Church,  of  Philadelphia. 

Connected  with  this  church  was  a  body  of  some 
thirty  young  men,  called  "  St.  Paul's  Pand,"  into 
which  I  also  entered  as  a  member.  They  held  a 
social  meeting  on  Sunday  evening  before  the  ser- 
mon, and  then  again  on  Monday  and  Saturday'' 
evenings.  On  Monday  evening  they  planned  and 
divided  up  their  work  for  the  week,  which  was  re- 
ported to  the  band  on  Saturday  evening.  They  had 
various  small  committees,  to  visit  the  sick,  the 
poor,  the  slums  of  vice  for  young  men,  to  hold 
cottage  prayer-meetings  with  the  aged,  etc.  This 
Christian  band  saved  many  a  young  man,  and  did 
a  vast  deal  of  good,  more  than  either  tongue  could 
tell  or  heart  on  earth  could  know.     During  the 


306  THE   LIGHT   OF   OTHER  DAYS. 

week  I  was  engaged  in  canvassing,  returning, 
however,  to  the  city  on  Saturday  evening.  From, 
my  condition  and  occupation  I  was  expected  to 
take  little  work  with  the  band;  but  their  reports 
and  church-meetings  were  very  enjoyable  and  re- 
freshing to  me. 

I  had  informed  uiy  home  friends  by  letter  of 
the  change  ic  my  life,  but  did  not  for  many  weeks 
venture  to  visit  them.  I  very  much  desired  to 
do  this,  but  felt  too  weak  to  face  my  old  com- 
panions. I  knew  how  fully  I  had  harmonized 
with  them,  and  something  of  the  social  and 
moral  power  they  could  exert  over  me.  I  could 
easily  avoid  the  old  comrades  in  the  city,  but 
those  at  home  I  knew  I  must  surrender  to  or  face 
them  boldly  for  Christ.  I  linally  mustered  cour- 
age to  go  home,  but  timidly  took  the  Saturday 
evening  train,  that  I  might  meet  none  of  my  old 
associates  before  the  Sabbath.  My  father,  as  I 
feared  would  be  the  case,  did  not  feel  satisfied  with 
my  having  joined  the  Methodist  Church,  and  felt 
much  grieved  that  I  had  not  cast  in  my  name  and 
lot  with  the  old  family  church.  From  him,  there- 
fore, I  did  not  receive  the  warm  encouragement 
that  I  needed  and  had  expected.  The  church  is 
too  often  first  and  foremost  with  man ;  and  our 
devotion  to  that  of  our  particular  choice  often 
blunts  the  point  of  our  spiritual  power  over  men. 


AMONG   THE   METHODISTS.  307 

My  mother  was  of  a  warmer  nature.  She  express- 
■ed  great  satisfaction  at  my  course,  and  gave  me 
warm  words  of  encouragement. 

Nearest  my  father's  home  was  the  Methodist 
Episcopal  church,  I  knew  that  before  the  morn- 
ing sermon  they  held  their  class-meeting,  and  in 
this  I  determined  to  begin  the  work  of  the  day. 
It  was  only  for  members,  as  I  knew;  and  when  I 
•entered  the  room  there  was  an  expression  of  great 
surprise.  They  had  heard  nothing  of  my  change, 
and  little  dreamed  of  my  relationship  with  them. 
"They  knew,  too,  of  my  former  wild  life,  and  won- 
dered why  I  should  come  among  them  at  that 
hour.  As  I  felt  and  knew,  every  eye  was  up- 
on me.  The  meeting  was  wholly  of  a  voluntary 
■order;  and  its  spirit,  compared  with  that  of  the 
Philadelphia  meetliig,  Avas  one  of  coldness.  Near 
the  close  of  the  meeting,  to  the  surprise  of  all,  I 
arose  and  briefly  related  my  late  experience,  and 
eolicited  an  interest  in  their  prayers.  Many  fer- 
vent responses  encouraged  me  in  my  remarks,  and 
after  the  meeting  many  kind  and  cordial  words 
^ere  spoken  by  the  various  members. 

From  the  class-room  I  entered  the  auditorium 
for  the  sermon,  taking  my  seat  well  in  front.  Aft- 
er the  service  I  went  directly  home,  without  meet- 
ing any  of  my  old  mates.  The  reader  certainly 
will  not  suppose  that  I  did  not  feel  kindly  toward 


808  THE   LIGHT    OF    OTHER    DAYS. 

them,  or  that  my  heart  lacked  love  for  them.  I 
would  have  done  anything  on  earth  to  have  led 
them  to  my  dear  and  blessed  Master.  I  desired 
first  to  be  more  fully  committed  to  the  cause 
before  them,  and  by  public  religious  devotion. 
Then  I  felt  that  they  would  accept  me  as  a  Chris- 
tian, rather  than  as  merely  one  of  their  old,  jovial 
mates.  I  determined  during  my  stay  to  approach 
them,  and  if  possible  win  them  to  the  side  of  Je- 
sus and  his  truth.  Many  of  my  mates  were  at  the 
morning  meeting;  but  the  action  in  the  class  hav- 
ing been  whispered  around,  they  were  a  little  shy 
of  me,  as  indeed  I  was  of  them,  so  that  we  did 
not  meet  at  church;  nor  did  they  call  during  the 
afternoon.  Few,  very  few  indeed,  of  the  young  peo- 
ple of  Doylestown,  at  that  time,  were  identified 
practically  with  the  work  of  Jesus  and  his  church. 
In  the  evening  I  was  early  at  church,  and,  as 
before,  took  an  extreme  front  seat.  By  the  altar 
and  among  God's  own  people  I  felt  most  safe. 
And,  indeed,  the  altar  is  the  place  for  God's 
people  in  the  sanctuary.  When  the  heart  is  warm,, 
as  with  the  young  convert  or  devoted  veteran,  they 
croiod  the  altar  with  their  presence.  They  would 
get  as  near  to  God's  own  throne  and  presence  as 
possible.  Like  true  soldiers,  they  would  be  at  the 
front.  If  the  church  be  cold,  even  professed  Chris- 
tians will  linger  by  the  door  as  though  they  dread- 


AMONG   THE   METHODISTS.  309 

ed  the  holy,  cleansing  fire  of  tlie  altar.  There  is 
nothing  more  encouraging  to  the  minister  than  to 
see  his  own  flock  gathering  about  him  and  around 
him  as  he  ascends  the  holy  place,  and  nothing 
really  more  discouraging  than  to  see  them  only  at 
a  distance  from  the  center  of  service.  Reader,  if 
you  would  hold  up  the  hands  of  your  minister  go 
to  the  front.  There  the  active  work  is  done;  there 
the  sinner  is  born  again;  there  the  presence  of 
the  Spirit  is  most  manifest. 

The  minister  came  in  a  little  late.  After  open- 
ing the  meeting,  and  while  the  last  hymn  was  be- 
ing sung,  he  advanced  to  me  and  said,  "  Brother 
Smith,  I  am  sick,  and  really  unable  to  preach. 
You  must  come  forward  and  talk  to  the  people. 
The  story  of  your  experience  will  be  edifying  to 
all,  and  through  it  you  may  reach  the  hearts  of 
the  young  people."  I  was  amazed  at  the  thought 
of  speaking  to  an  audience  that  almost  literally 
crowded  the  house.  I  had  little  experience  in 
speaking,  and  positively  declined  to  accede  to  his 
proposition.  However,  he  insisted,  and  finally, 
with  great  reluctance,  I  consented.  After  a  mo- 
ment's hesitation,  I  spoke  some  half  hour  to  the 
people  with  special  freedom.  A  few  brief  remarks 
from  the  minister,  and  the  meeting  was  closed.  I 
returned  home  with  a  refreshed  spirit,  and  felt  to 
thank   God  that  I   had  so  good  an  opportunity 


310  THE   LIGHT    OF    OTHER    DAYS. 

to  commend  the  name  and  cause  of  Jesus  to  my 
dear  old  comrades.  Although  wholly  unsought^ 
and  as  completely  unexpected,  yet  I  had  the  op- 
portunity that  I  most  needed.  I  had  now  fully 
committed  myself  to  the  cause  in  the  most  public 
manner.  My  young  mates  knew  from  my  own 
lips  what  was  to  be  the  manner  of  my  future  earth- 
ly life ;  and  I  had  invited  them  and  pleaded  with 
them  to  come  with  me  to  the  banqueting-house  of 
the  dear  Redeemer. 

For  a  few  days  my  gay  companions  of  other 
days  rather  avoided  me  than  otherwise.  "When 
passing  on  the  street  I  heard  a  few  purposely  loud 
remarks  regarding  my  case,  and  a  few  that  were 
specially  chilling  to  my  feelings.  At  the  end  of 
the  week  several  of  my  old  mates  approached  me 
and  proposed  a  glass  of  lager,  and  then,  on  declin- 
ing this,  a  stew  of  oysters.  This  also  declined,. 
they  insisted  on  my  bringing  out  my  violin  as  of 
other  days.  However,  I  felt  that  to  these  appeals- 
I  was  wholly  immovable.  If  they  would  approach 
me  only  with  such  temptations,  I  was  at  least  safe. 
There  were  those  in  town  whom  I  dreaded  to 
meet,  from  knowing  their  intense  opposition  to 
religious  people,  if  not  to  religion  itself.  Among 
those  was  a  German  mechanic,  whose  scathing 
talk  against  so-called  religious  people  I  had  often 
heard.     Meeting  him  in  a  store  one  day,  the  mer- 


AMONG   THE   METHODISTS.  311 

chant  mentioned  to  him  the  late  change  in  my 
habits  of  life.  "Yes,"  the  German  said,  "I  had 
heard  of  it;"  and  then,  to  my  surprise,  he  said, 
"Mr.  Smith,  it  is  the  best  thing  you  ever  did  ;  and 
the  hearty  advice  of  my  heart  is,  '  Stick  to  your 
profession ;  do  not  give  it  up."  I  was  grateful  to 
the  man,  acd  thanked  him  from  a  warm  heart. 
The  rough  world  has  greatly  more  respect  for  re- 
ligion than  we  are  wont  to  imagine.  They  know 
something  and  much  of  its  worth ;  and  there  are 
times  when  they  are  ready  to  express  their  appre- 
ciation of  it.  That  the  sinner  is  so  ready  to  con- 
demn the  unreasonable  life  of  the  professed  Chris- 
tian is  no  less  proof  of  the  worth  of  religion  than 
his  praise,  uniformly,  of  the  consistent  life,  and  of 
religion  itself.  The  lukewarm  and  inconsistent 
church-member  brings  many  a  wound  upon  the 
cause,  and  keeps  many  a  poor  sinner  back  from 
Jesus  Christ. 

A  few  days  after  I  was  in  a  barber-shop,  where 
I  met  several  old  associates.  As  I  entered  the 
conversation  was  instantly  suppressed,  and  im- 
mediately a  young  fellow  began  to  preach  a  take- 
off sermon  in  German.  I  understood  well  his  talk, 
and  at  first  felt  very  indignant.  I  thought  that  at 
least  I  would  reprove  him  for  his  insult,  but  then 
concluded  that  as  a  matter  of  personal,  moral 
safety  I  had  better  bear  all  in  silence.     These  in- 


312  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

suiting  taunts  and  temptations  endured  but  a  few- 
days,  when  they  ceased  entirely.  Satan  is  not  dis- 
posed to  surrender  his  servants  without  a  struggle ; 
and  he  struggled  hard,  I  am  sure,  to  retain  me  in 
his  service.  My  companions  seeing  that  my  sur- 
render to  Christ  was  both  sincere  and  complete,  I 
was  soon  safe  in  that  direction.  I  had  fought  a 
severe  battle,  as  I  anticipated  I  must;  but  by  the 
help  of  God  I  had  won  the  day  and  carried  the 
field.  The  old  idea  of  preaching,  so  fresh  in  the 
mind  of  my  childhood,  now  came  back  to  me  with 
great  force;  at  least  I  would  by  personal  effort 
seek  to  bring  men  to  Jesus,  and  if  the  way  open- 
ed for  wider  work  I  would  be  ready  to  enter  it. 
I  made  something  of  an  effort  among  my  old  mates ; 
but  beyond  extorting  a  few  good  promises  I  felt 
that  I  had  accomplished  nothing.  I  now  felt  that 
I  had  fully  performed  my  mission  at  home.  I  had 
confessed  Christ  at  least  before  my  old  comrades, 
and  was  now  ready  to  return  to  the  city, 

On  arriving  at  Philadelphia  I  opened  my  heart 
to  Mr.  Yandersloot  regarding  my  conviction  of 
duty  ministerially.  He  advised  me  to  continue  the 
business  of  canvassing  for  the  present,  handling 
the  Bible  and  other  good  books,  and  await  the 
openings  of  Providence.  He  also  at  this  time  gave 
me  much  good  advice  regarding  my  personal  habits, 
and  especially  as  to  the  service  of  prayer.     He  in- 


AMONG  THE   METHODISTS.  313 

fiisted  that  I  could  not  be  too  particular  in  this  di- 
rection, and  that  faithfulness  here  would  assure  my 
success  as  a  Christian.  Said  he,  "  Close  the  day 
with  prayer,  and  begin  the  day  with  prayer.  'Never 
seek  sleep  without  therewith  seeking  God  and  re- 
posing on  him  your  all.  I^Tever  leave  your  room 
in  the  morning  for  the  duties  of  the  day  without 
first  commending  yourself  and  the  directing  of  your 
steps  to  God."  More  important  counsel  was  never 
given  a  young  convert  than  this;  and  its  observ- 
ance has  proved  a  mine  of  richest  value  to  me. 
Too  much  time  can  not  be  given  to  prayer.  In- 
deed, the  Christian  is  admonished  "  to  watch  and 
pray,"  to  pray  always,  and  in  all  things  to  give 
thanks. 

A  number  of  ministers  were  once  discussing  dif- 
ferent scriptural  problems,  one  of  which  was, 
*'How  can  one  pray  without  ceasing?"  At  length 
one  of  the  number  was  appointed  to  write  an  es- 
say upon  the  question,  to  be  read  at  the  next  meet- 
ing. A  lady  overheard  the  proposition,  and  step- 
ping into  the  room  she  said,  "What,  a  whole 
month's  waiting  to  tell  the  meaning  of  that  text? 
It  is  one  of  the  easiest  and  best  texts  in  the  Bible." 
Said  an  old  minister,  "  Sister  Mary,  tell  us  what 
you  know  about  it.  Can  you  pray  all  the  time?" 
*'  Oh,  yes,  sir,"  she  answered.  "  Tell  us  how  you 
can,"  said  he.     "  AYhen  I  first  open  my  eyes  in  the 


314  THE    LIGHT   OF    OTHER   DATS. 

morning,"  elie  replied,  "  I  pray  the  Lord  to  open 
the  eyes  of  my  understanding;  while  I  am  dress- 
ing, I  pray  that  I  may  be  clothed  with  the  robe 
of  righteousness ;  when  I  wash,  I  ask  for  the  wash- 
ing of  regeneration ;  as  I  begin  to  work,  I  pray 
for  strength  equal  to  my  day ;  as  I  kindle  the  fire, 
I  pray  the  Lord  to  revive  his  work  in  my  soul; 
when  I  sweep  the  house,  I  pray  that  my  heart  may 
be  swept  from  all  impurities;  when  I  prepare  the 
breakfast,  I  pray  God  to  feed  ray  soul  with  the  hid- 
den manna."  "Enough,  enough,"  cried  the  old 
divine;  "go  on,  Mary,  and  continue  to  pray  with- 
out ceasing;  and,  brethren,  let  us  bless  the  Lord 
for  this  exposition."  The  essay  was  considered 
unnecessary. 

Wh}",  Pericles,  the  great  Athenian  statesman, 
heathen  though  he  was,  never  began  to  address  the 
people  without  first  invoking  the  help  of  the  gods. 
The  great  Roman  general,  Cornelius  Scipio,  never 
undertook  any  afiair  of  importance  after  he  became 
emperor  without  having  passed  some  time  alone 
in  the  temple  of  Jupiter  Capitolinus.  Says  Plato, 
"  The  best  and  noblest  action  of  life  is  to  live  in 
continuous  intercourse  with  the  gods."  Even  that 
distinguished  man,  John  Quincy  Adams,  never  in 
his  whole  life  retired  to  sleep  without  first  repeat- 
ing that  simple  prayer,  "j^ow  I  lay  me  down  to 
sleep,"  etc.     He  thought  the   huiguage  eloquent 


AMONG   THE   METHOPISTS.  31 S 

enough  for  the  world's  most  eloquent  lips.  Says 
Augustine,  "When  we  read  God's  word,  he  speaks 
to  us;  but  when  we  pray,  we  speak  to  God."  The 
conversation  should  be  mutual.  If  God  speaks  to- 
us,  we  should  answer  him. 


316  THE   LIGHT    OF   OTHER  DATS. 


CHAPTER  XXXYIII. 

ON  THE  ROAD  AND  IN  THE  FIELD. 

We  called  on  Mr.  W"elch  for  counsel,  and  he  ad- 
vised me  to  follow  the  course  suggested  by  Mr. 
Vandersloot.  An  advertisement  was  inserted  in 
the  papers  for  a  boy  of  pious  parents  to  serve  as  a 
guide  for  a  blind  man.  The  next  morning  the 
very  one  that  I  needed  came,  and  I  engaged  him. 
He  was  a  good,  intelligent  lad,  and  answered  ev- 
ery want  as  far  as  possible.  I  stipulated,  among 
other  things,  that  he  should  read  me  God's  word 
at  least  one  hour  daily.  Thus  he  was  to  become 
my  teacher,  and  in  no  small  degree  aid  me  in  my  s^ 
preparation  for  the  solemn  work  of  the  ministry. 
Prom  Mr.  Welch  I  also  received  a  letter  of  com- 
mendation, covering  my  membership  with  and  the 
fellowship  of  his  church.  Taking  Mr.  Yander- 
sloot's,  "Life  of  Christ,"  and  sample  Bibles,  I 
started  for  the  city  of  Reading,  Pennsylvania. 
On  arriving:  I  obtained  the  names  of  several  min- 
isters,  on  one  of  whom  I  called,  that  through  him 
I  miffht  secure  a  Christian  home.     I  had  hereto- 

o 


ON  THE  ROAD  AND  IN  THE  FIELD.      317 

fore  stopped  at  hotels,  but  in  this  habit  I  was 
compelled  by  my  feelings  and  my  personal  interest 
to  make  a  change.  I  must  Lave  Christian  sur- 
roundings and  retirement,  which  good  private 
homes  would  afford  me.  My  profits  were  not  to 
be  as  large  as  formerly,  but  my  expenses  were  to 
be  less,  so  that  I  was  to  be  no  real  loser  in  the  end. 
Mr.  C,  the  minister  on  whom  I  called,  proved 
to  be  an  old  friend,  and  after  tea  he  conducted  me 
to  a  quiet  Christian  home  in  the  house  of  a  widow 
lady.  It  proved  the  very  home  I  needed,  and  for 
several  months  I  was  happy  under  its  shadov/.  My 
companionship  was  no  longer  of  a  dangerous  class^ 
but  one  calculated  to  comfort  and  strengthen  me, 
while  my  sales  were  of  books  that  I  could  con- 
scientiously commend,  and  the  reading  of  which 
must  result  in  good.  Indeed,  if  I  could  not  yet 
preach,  I  was  spreading  that  word  which  has 
^  proved  the  grandest  preacher  of  any  age  or  nation 
— the  word,  the  glory  of  which  is  as  the  sun  of 
day.  When  an  Indian  minister  presented  himself  "^ 
at  the  court  of  Queen  Victoria  he  inquired  of  her 
in  the  name  of  his  prince,  "  What  is  the  secret  of 
England's  greatness?"  She  brought  him  a  beauti- 
fully-bound copy  of  the  word  of  God,  and  said, 
"Present  this  to  your  prince,  and  tell  him  this  Bi- 
ble is  the  secret  of  England's  greatness."  The 
Bible,  indeed,  is  the  secret  of  modern  civilization ; 


'318  THE    LIGHT    OF   OTHER   DAYS 

audit  is  the  grand  basis  of  the  happiness  and  hope 
of  man. 

When  my  daily  Bible-readings  began  I  was  as- 
tonished to  find  how  little  I  knew  of  its  sacred 
lessons.  But  I  was  deeply  interested  now.  I  had 
a  good  reader;  and  during  my  three  months*  stay 
in  the  city  of  Reading  I  made  rapid  progress  as  a 
Bible  student.  I  was  deeply  moved,  and  with  each 
reading  greatly  comforted.  I  attended  Mr.  C.'s 
meetings,  and  also  class,  at  his  church  for  some 
two  weeks;  but  these  seemed  as  coldness  in  the 
-worship  compared  with  those  in  Philadelphia,  and 
I  hardly  felt  at  home. 

One  day  I  met  a  gentleman  who  invited  me  to 
attend  his  church  and  class,  which,  under  his  es- 
cort, I  did  that  very  evening.  The  minister  was  a 
young  man  but  little  older  than  myself,  and  his 
people  seemed  humble  and  spiritual.  A  series  of 
revival-meetings  were  in  progress,  and  these  I 
attended  nightly  for  many  weeks.  I  took  a  free, 
active  part  in  exhortation,  counsel,  and  prayer,  all 
of  which  I  greatly  enjoyed. 

Up  to  this  time  I  had  a  (;lear  evidence  of  my 
acceptance;  and  yet  I  longed  and  prayed  for  a 
clearer  light,  and,  if  possible,  a  higher  life.  I 
wanted  a  higher  measure  of  joy  and  a  deeper 
measurem.ent  of  feeling.  Others  seemed  to  pos- 
sess these,  and  I  determined  that  I  would  also,  if 


ON  THE  ROAD  AND  IN  THE  FIELD.      319 

such  posseasion  were  possible.  One  night,  about 
two  o'clock,  I  awoke  from  a  deep  sleep,  possessing 
such  a  flood  of  peace  and  such  a  weight  of  joy  as 
I  had  never  before  experienced.  I  could  not  lie  in 
bed,  and  felt  that  I  must  awaken  the  family.  I 
was  now  possessed  of  all  I  longed  for.  I  had 
reached  perfect  trust,  and  was  filled,  as  I  believed, 
with  all  the  fullness  of  God.  I  felt  that  I  was  en- 
dued with  power  from  on  high,  and  that  God  had 
now  given  me  a  special  qualification  for  work. 

The  field  of  moral  work,  too,  was  opening  and 
enlarging  on  every  hand  and  in  a  great  variety  of 
ways.  The  gentleman  of  the  house,  a  brother  of 
my  hostess,  was  an  active  member  of  the  Young 
Men's  Christian  Association ;  and  one  Sabbath 
morning  he  invited  me  to  accompany  him  and  sev- 
eral others  to  the  alms-house,  a  few  miles  distant. 
Here,  by  request,  I  addressed  the  unfortunate  in- 
mates, who  seemed  to  accept  my  words  with  in- 
terest and  emotion.  I  was  much  blessed  by  the 
meeting.  At  the  close  of  the  service  a  gentleman 
requested  me  to  go  into  his  neighborhood  in  the 
afternoon  and  address  his  Sunday-school,  promis- 
i.)g  to  come  to  the  city  for  me  if  I  would  do  so. 
I  promised,  and  in  the  afternoon  accompanied  him ; 
and  in  my  Master's  name  I  addressed  the  Sabbath- 
school  with  great  personal  enjoyment  and  profit. 
I  also  visited  the  prison  with  the  Young  Men'* 


320  THE   LIGHT   OF   OTHER   DATS. 

Christian  Association  workers,  and  addressed  the 
prisoners  with  great  liberty,  and  I  trust  witli  some 
profit  to  them. 

The  opportunities  for  work  now  daily  multiplied 
on  my  hands,  and  came  without  seeking.  But  I 
had  thoroughly  canvassed  Reading,  and  business 
required  that  I  leave  the  city.  I  canvassed  from 
town  to  town  until  I  finally  reached  "Williamsport, 
where  I  was  to  remain  for  a  time.  I  had  almost 
perfect  peace  since  the  evening  above  referred 
to,  while  the  old  feeling  of  fear  which  had  troubled 
me  so  much,  especially  in  traveling,  was  entirely 
gone.  I  felt  as  safe  on  the  train  as  within  my 
home  or  my  bed.  I  was  God's  child,  and  lived,  I 
felt  sure,  under  his  watchful  eye,  and  in  his  very 
arms.  Why  should  I  fear  while  God  was  with  me? 
He  would  stand  by  me,  even  in  the  presence  of 
death.  Everywhere,  too,  friends  received  me  cor- 
dially, and  a  thousand  courtesies  were  extended  to 
me.  Verily,  I  shared  in  every  good  thing,  and 
lacked  for  nothing. 

On  alighting  from  the  cars  at  "Williamsport,  I 
met  a  gentleman  on  the  sidewalk  and  asked  him 
to  direct  me  to  a  Christian  home.  Said  he, "  I  can 
take  you  right  to  the  place  you  wish."  He  was  a 
physician ;  and  his  carriage  being  by  him  I  was 
Boon  seated  within  it,  on  my  way  to  the  asylum  I 
had  wished — a  good  Christian  home.     Our  first  ap- 


ON   THE    ROAD    AND    IN    THE    FIELD.  321 

plication  was,  perhaps  forttiuately,  unsuccessful; 
but  he  knew  where  to  make  another.  "We  soon 
reached  the  pleasant  and  prettily-located  home  of 
Mrs.  Harriet  Hornet,  where  accommodations  were 
accorded  me.  I  was  welcomed  by  one  of  Christ's 
most  devoted  servants,  and  one  of  the  most  ardent 
workers  of  his  church.  I  had  truly  a  delightful 
home,  in  an  exceedingly  pleasant  family.  I  had 
met,  too,  that  woman  who  in  the  providence  of 
God  was  to  teach  me  the  wa}'  of  God  more  per- 
fectly— in  what  manner,  and  to  what  extent,  will 
soon  appear.  As  Apollos  had  reason  in  after 
life  for  thanking  God  that  he  had  met  Aquila  and 
Priscilla,  so  I  have  had  reason  to  thank  God  that 
I  met  this  "  Priscilla "  of  God's  household.  The 
church  has  many  of  them,  but  it  has  none  to  spare. 
In  this  Mrs.  Hornet  I  felt  at  once  that  I  could 
place  perfect  confidence.  Approach  to  her  was 
with  the  utmost  freedom.  Indeed,  I  had  never 
met  one,  I  thought,  whom  I  could  approach  so  freely. 
In  some  ways  even  my  own  mother  seemed  to 
stand  a  greater  distance  from  me  than  she.  She 
was  one  of  those  congenial  or  affinity  spirits 
one  will  meet  a  few  times  in  life.  Between  such 
spirits  there  is  no  barrier.  !N'ame,  complexion, 
features,  age,  or  station,  neither  one  nor  all,  enter 
into. the  field  of  consideration  when  spirits  find 
their  congenial  mates.     I  have  no  doubt  but  this 

21 


322  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

feeling  of  affinity  wilL  largely  determiue  our  rela- 
tionships and  associations  in  the  other  life.  That 
it  does  here,  we  know.  But  our  soul-attractions 
and  congenial  companionships  in  this  life  are  not 
determined  by  the  goodness  of  those  who  are 
m.embers  of  our  church  circle,  or  indeed  of  our 
family  circle,  and  who  are  thus  bound  to  us  by  spir- 
itual or  even  consanguineous  ties.  "We  may  some- 
times take  to  the  most  cordial  sympathy  and  fel- 
lowship of  our  hearts  persons  heretofore  unknown, 
and  separated  from  us  by  the  semi-circumference 
of  the  globe.  As  in  this  life,  so  doubtless  in  the 
other.  We  shall  meet  angels  whose  companion- 
ship would  afford  no  special  attractions  or  satisfac- 
tion to  us,  while  for  ^uch  a  one  other  angel  hearts 
might  beat  in  most  perfect  harmony.  It  is  doubt- 
less well  that  these  division-lines  are  drawn,  and 
that  these  distinct  social  demarkations  are  so  com- 
pletely interwoven  with  the  texture  of  our  beings. 

Mrs,  Homet  was  a  devoted  member  of  the  Bap- 
tist Church,  and  had  been  for  very  many  years, 
while  her  husband  was  a  deacon  of  the  same  body. 
Although  the  children  were  grown  and  settled  in 
life,  yet  the  home  was  by  no  means  lonely;  for  a 
goodly  company  of  boarders  were  gathered  about 
the  table  and  the  good  man's  family  altar. 

Among  these  boarders  were  several  young  men 
■  of  Christian  sympathies  and  habits,  in  wliose  com- 


ON  THE  ROAD  AND  IX  THE  FIELD.      o26 

paiiioiisliip  I  took  great  delight,  and  iu  whose 
moral  work  I  had  a  liberal  share.  The  younrj  men 
of  this  age  are  figuring  with  wonderful  conspicu- 
oiisness  in  the  grand  drama  of  moral  life  and  work. 
The  nineteenth  century  seems  to  be  their  special 
age,  while  the  organization  known  as  the  "  Young 
Men's  Christian  Association"  is  their  grand  and 
blessed  rallying-center.  This  organization  must 
be  the  cavalry  corps  of  the  army  of  our  Lord ;  for,  as 
Thane  Miller  says,  "  it  is  the  church  on  horseback." 
It  is,  indeed,  wonderfully  and  unaccountably 
strange  that  these  mighty  moral  agencies  have 
been  so  generally  deferred  in  their  birth  until  this 
momentous  century.  It  can  hardly  be  that  other 
generations  oii'ered  no  inducements  for  moral 
work  like  our  own,  for  there  is  scarcely  one  vice 
that  is  peculiar  to  our  own  times.  Temptations 
have  ever  abounded,  and  moral  degradation  and 
ruin  have  ever  been  the  experiences  of  the  world. 
Yet  to  this  age  belong  nearly  all  the  great  reform- 
ative and  philanthropic  agencies,  without  which 
the  moral  hands  would  seemingly  be  almost  idle. 
To  us  belong  the  Sabbath-school,  the  Young  Men's 
Christian  Association,  the  Bible  Society,  the  Tract 
Society,  the  more  than  eighty  distinct  missionary 
societies,  the  Peace  Convention,  the  temperance  or- 
ganizations, the  Prison  Congress,  and  even  the 
World's  Evano'elical   Alliance.     No  one  of  these 


o 


324  THE   LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

agencies  could  we  spare.  TV'Lut  did  the  fathers  do 
without  them?  and  why  were  they  not  born  be- 
fore? What  theaters  of  wonderful  usefulness  do 
these  organizations,  or  the  most  of  them,  open  to 
the  young  men  of  our  age  ! 

The  young  men  of  Mrs.  Hornet's  home  all  re- 
garded her  with  aiiection,  for  indeed  she  was  the 
light  of  the  household  to  eacli.  Her  heart  was 
ever  open  to  him  who  wished  counsel  or  comfort  ^ 
and  she  had  a  most  happy  faculty  of  lifting  the 
clouds  and  letting  in  the  sunshine.  The  world  can 
not  get  too  much  social  and  moral  sunshine ;  and 
when  we  meet  those  hearts  which  serve  as  reflect- 
ors or  concentrators  of  this  sunshine,  we  have  met 
the  world's  real  benefactors.  The  idea  of  waiting 
lor  sunlight  until  we  reach  the  other  world  is 
wholly  preposterous.  If  a  man  does  not  need 
light  in  a  darkened  and  strange  way,  when  does 
he  need  it?  If  the  soul  in  sin  and  sorrow  does 
not  need  it,  what  soul  does?  Too  many  are  con- 
tented to  wait  until  the  gates  of  heaven  open  upon 
them.  But  even  now  the  Sun  of  Righteousness 
has  arisen  with  healing  in  his  wings ;  and  walking 
in  the  light  w^e  need  to  have  no  darkness  at  all. 
We  are  come  to  Mount  Ziou,  from  the  brow  of 
which  the  world  witnessed  the  resurrection  and 
ascension  of  our  Lord,  as  well  as  his  cruciflxionand 
burial.    Life  has  succeeded  death.     The  thunder- 


ON  THE  ROAD  AND  IN  THE  FIELD.      325 

3ngs  of  Sinai  belong  not  to  tlie  promised  land,  in 
whicli  even  now  we  stand;  but  ours  is  the  glorj 
of  a  continued  transfiguration.  If  in  our  pilgrim- 
age we  have  sorrow,  yet  Christ  is  with  us  as  the 
Light  of  life,  even  though  we  know  it  not.  IS'o 
Christian  should  blind  his  eyes  by  putting  his  head 
into  a  cloud,  while  his  feet  are  seeking  the  proper 
steps  of  his  pilgrimage.  To  go  blindly  in  the 
Christian  life  is  neither  good  sense  nor  duty,  in 
this  day  of  blazing  moral  light.  We  may  hope 
that  the  Christian  world  is  getting  out  of  the  cloudy 
valley  and  upon  the  clear  mountain  top  of  contin- 
ued triumph 


326  THE   LIGHT   OP   OTHER  DAYS. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

AMONG   THE   BAPTISTS. 

I  had  frequent  doctrinal  talks  with  Mrs.  Hornet, 
and  many  pleasant  Bible-readings.  By  my  request 
she  read  to  me  much  bearing  on  the  baptismal  ques- 
tion. I  had  been,  as  the  reader  will  recall,  deeply 
impressed  by  the  baptismal  scenes  I  had  witnessed 
in  my  childhood,  and  especially  by  those  I  had 
Avitnessed  in  the  Big  j^eshaminy,  at  New  Brittaiu. 
Since  my  conversion  my  mind  had  been  much  ex- 
ercised in  this  direction,  and  I  ardently  desired 
further  light.  I  had  talked  w^ith  several  ministers 
and  other  friends,  but  all,  thus  far,  had  been  pe- 
dobaptist;  and  though  they  had  oftered  me  their 
aguments,  yet  I  was  both  unconvinced  and  with- 
out satisfaction.  They  generally  admitted  that 
the  original  method  of  baptism  as  practiced  by  the 
primitive  church  was  immersion ;  but  they  failed 
to  show  me  by  what  valid  authority  the  method 
had  been  changed.  Interested  in  baptism  as  an 
ordinance  of  God's  house,  I  could  only  be  satisfied 
with  the  correct  form  of  it.     I  would  know  how 


AMONG   THE   BAPTISTS.  327 

Jesus  was  baptized,  and  be  satisfied  only  with  bap- 
tism in  the  same  form. 

Mrs.  Homet  did  not  offer  me  much  argument, 
but  read  me  the  plain  word  without  comment,  and 
directed  me  to  pray  over  it  for  further  light.  She 
brought  me  to  Jesus  and  his  disciples,  and  left  me 
in  their  company  for  consolation,  illumination,  and 
guidance.  Up  to  this  time  I  simply  knew  that 
she  was  an  immersionist,  and  not  that  she  was 
a  member  of  the  Baptist  Church,  She  neither  in- 
sisted that  I  should  be  immersed,  nor  that  I  should 
change  my  church  relationship.  Her  manner  in 
this  regard  was  not  dictatorial,  but  warm,  cordial, 
and  full  of  love.  She  would  not  force  me  into  her 
church,  but  lead  me  more  fully  to  Jesus.  She  was 
a  practical  worker,  and  gave  much  attention  to  the 
Woman's  Christian  Mission,  of  which  she  was  an 
active  member.  She  did  not  neglect  her  household 
duties ;  but  therewith  she  found  much  time  to  wait 
on  Jesus.  The  first  meeting  I  attended  with  her, 
was  a  Methodist  social  meeting,  in  which  she  spoke 
and  showed  herself  fully  alive  to  the  wants  of  the 
sinner.  I  attended  with  her,  also,  the  meetings  of 
the  Young  Men's  Christian  Association,  and 
through  her  was  soon  acquainted  with  the  young 
men  of  the  city,  and  with  their  methods  of  work 
and  the  rich  blessings  flowing  therefrom.  For 
some  weeks  I  attended   the  Methodist  meetings 


328  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

only,  Mrs.  Hornet  not  insisting  on  my  going  with. 
her  to  her  church. 

One  day  Mr.  Clapp,  her  minister,  called  at  her 
home,  and  I  made  his  acquaintance.  Finding  him 
cordial  and  social,  I  alluded  to  my  baptismal  spec- 
ulations and  misgivings.  He  said,  "  I  have  heard 
of  your  trouble."  This  was  not  through  Mrs. 
Homet,  as  I  had  supposed,  but  through  another  in- 
mate of  the  family.  He  sought  an  expression  of 
my  own  convictions,  in  which  he  led  me  on  by  a 
series  of  questions  covering  the  matter  in  hand. 
I  told  him  that  to  my  mind  immersion  in  water 
was  the  only  Bible  mode  of  baptism,  and  that  as 
such  it  was  to  be  accepted  as  an  outward  sign  of 
an  inward  work.  He  then  offered  to  baptize  me 
it  I  desired,  to  which  I  heartily  assented,  preferring 
only  that  he  should  not  be  troubled  for  me  alone. 
"■I  would  as  soon  enter  the  water  for  one,"  he  said, 
"  as  for  many ;  and  I  am  ready  to  baptize  you  at 
any  time." 

The  followinc^  Wednesdav  evenine;  I  attended  a 
social  meeting  at  his  church,  when  my  application 
for  baptism  and  membership  was  presented  by  Mr. 
Clapp.  By  request,  I  related  my  Christian  expe- 
rienc;  and  this  was  followed  by  a  variety  of  ques- 
tions propounded  by  the  deacons,  covering  the 
general  outlines  of  Bible  doctrines  and  the  Baptist 
faith      They  took  special  pains  to  enlighten  me  on. 


AMONG   THE   BAPTISTS.  329 

the  duties  of  a  churcli-member,  and  as  to  wliat 
they  would  expect  from  me  as  sucli.  And  this  is 
a  point,  by  the  way,  too  much  overlooked.  Mem- 
bership is  too  often  accepted  and  tendered  as  a  sort 
of  accommodation  to  the  church,  and  as  merely  a 
place  of  safety  for  the  converts.  That  the  church 
is  a  place  for  work,  the  brotherhood  should  em- 
phasize as  a  special  truth.  This  vineyard  one 
should  enter  with  tools  in  hands,  and  with  a  heart 
ready  for  earnest  and  constant  work.  The  church 
needs  to  be  regarded  more  as  a  field  wherein  to 
work,  and  less  as  a  school  wherein  to  learn.  That 
we  are  disciples,  I  would  have  no  man  forget;  but 
that  we  are  also  workers,  I  would  have  all  Cliris- 
tian  men  remember.  On  entering  the  gate  of  the 
vineyard  we  shall  meet  a  Master  who  can  and  will 
give  employment  to  each.  The  child,  the  youth, 
the  man,  the  aged,  the  prince,  the  beggar,  the 
learned,  the  unlearned,  may  all  work  side  by  side, 
both  as  sowers  and  reapers,  and  in  the  end  receive 
the  penny.  In  these  times  especially  both  the 
woman  and  the  child  are  recognized  workers;  and 
herein  is  a  striking  peculiarity  of  the  age.  Take 
the  women  workers  from  the  field,  and  we  should 
see  many  idle  plows;  and  take  our  children  from 
the  forefront  of  battle,  and  we  should  lose  many 
a  victory. 

Tlio  fuUowinu-  Sabbath  eveuiuic  I  went  down  iu- 


330  THE   LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS 

to  the  baptismal  font,  remembering  that  J  esus  had 
gone  down  into  the  baptismal  waters  before  me. 
As  I  descended  the  choir  was  singing, 

"I  love  to  tell  the  story  of  unseen  things  above, 
Of  Jesus  and  his  glory,  of  Jesus  and  his  love." 

To  my  heart  the  poet  sung, 

"  Thus  far  the  Lord  hath  led  me  on," 
"While  Peter  whispered,  "  This  you  do  not  for '  the 
putting  away  of  the  tilth  of  the  flesh,  but  the  an- 
swer of  a  good  conscience  toward  |God.'"  Once 
beneath  the  water,  I  was  truly  buried  with  Christ 
by  baptism  into  his  death ;  and  rising  therefrom  I 
felt  "  that  like  as  Christ  was  raised  up  from  the 
dead,  even  so  [I]  also  should  walk  in  newness  of 
life."  The  sweet  voice  of  the  choir  saluted  me, 
also,  with, 

'"Twill  be  my  theme  in  glory, 
To  tell  the  old,  old  story  of  Jesus  and  his  love." 

These  were  happy  moments  with  me,  as  the 
reader  will  readily  believe  if  he  has  passed  through 
the  same  experience.  The  joy  of  my  heart  was 
like  that  I  had  experienced  when  tlie  light  of  life 
burst  upon  me  as  I  was  born  again.  I  had  an- 
swered the  conviction  of  my  heart,  and  was  at 
peace. 

Soon  after  this  scene  I  was  received  as  a  mem- 
ber of  the  church,  having  received  the  hand  of 
fellowship  from  the  pastor.     My  church  relation- 


AMOXG    THE    BAPTISTS.  331 

ship  was  changed,  but  my  convictions  were  unal- 
tered. I  was  then  simply  what  I  ever  had  been  in 
Bentiment~a  Baptist.  Ko  man,  probably,  had 
ever"  been  led  more  exclusively  by  the  Bible  than  I; 
and  yet  this  book  had  led  me  to  where  I  now  was. 

For  several  months  I  continued  to  labor  with 
new  zeal  in  Williamsport  and  other  places,  as  op- 
portunity ottered;  and  many,  too,  were  the  open 
doors  for  successful  work.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
the  world's  one  voice  was,  "Help,"  and  that  all 
my  faculties  were  transformed  into  "an  ear  to 
hear"  it.  The  gate  of  duty  is  ever  wide  open  to 
the  worker :  and  it  is  unaccountable  that  so  many 
pass  on  without  seeing  it  or  caring  to  see  it.  The 
world,  ay,  the  church  is  full  of  "Levites;"  and  as 
ever  men  are  ready  to  "pass  by  on  the  other  side.'* 
Only  here  and  there  the  true  Samaritan  is  seen, 
with  ready  hand  and  heart  to  help  with  word  and 
sympathy  and  bread.  If  Christ  could  come  down 
from  glory  heights  to  the  valley  shaded  with  sor- 
row and  covered  with  clouds,  surely  you  and  I, 
reader,  should  stop,  listen,  and  help  as  we  pass  by 
the  craving,  wretched  multitude. 

I  spoke  very  often  publicly;  and  by  the  voice  of 
the  church  I  was  hnally  licensed  to  improve  my 
gift  as  an  evangelist.  This  was  an  event  in  my 
life,  and  yet  a  step  wholly  in  harmony  with  my 
convictions  of  dutv.    I  felt  stratified  that  the  church 


S32  THE   LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

ehould  commission  me ;  and  yet  I  felt  positive  that 
•God  had,  before  them,  commissioned  me  to  the 
same  work.  My  license  greatly  enlarged  my  field 
of  labor.  I  was  really  appointed  to  public  work, 
and  the  public  had  more  confidence  in  presenting 
their  claims  for  my  labors,  Mr.  Clapp,  the  pastor, 
received  me  into  very  cordial,  social  relations,  and 
in  every  way  possible  encouraged  my  desire  to 
serve  the  Master  and  answer  the  wants  of  man.  In 
the  direction  of  dependence  I  was  certainly  a  Tim- 
othy ;  and  in  all  ways  I  felt  him  to  be  a  Paul. 

Soon  after  being  licensed  I  was_in  Danville,  Penn- 
Bylvania,  and  attended  worship  in  the  evening  at 
the  Methodist  church.  The  pastor  was  holding  a 
Beries  of  meetings,  and  felt  very  much  worn  by 
his,  services.  During  the  singing  he  came  to  me 
and  said,  "Are  you  not  a  minister?"  I  told  him 
I  was  a  licentiate.  "Then,"  said  he,  "come  for- 
Avard  and  talk  to  the  people,  for  I  am  not  able  to 
do  so."  I  consented,  and  felt  much  refreshed.  At 
the  close  he  insisted  on  my  preaching  in  the  morn- 
ing of  the  next  day.  I  had  never  gone  into  the 
pulpit  for  a  formal  sermon;  and  I  felt  much  reluc- 
tance in  consenting,  but  finally  did  so.  The  night 
■was  one  of  anxiety  and  prayer.  I  dreaded  to  form- 
ally enter  upon  what  I  had  accepted  as  a  duty  and 
consented  to  assume  as  my  legitimate  life-work. 
"With  fear  and  trembling  I  went  to  the  house  of 


AMONG    THE   BAPTISTS.  33S 

fheLord  the  next  morning.  I  had  chosen  for  my 
text,  "I  am  the  door."  (John  x.  7.)  On  arriving 
at  the  house,  I  found  that  two  other  ministers  were 
present.  This  but  added  to  my  embarrassment. 
However,  I  got  along  as  well,  or  even  better  than 
I  anticipated,  while  from  the  interest  of  the  people 
I  felt  that  my  words  had  not  been  wholly  without 
profit.  I  had  now  formally  preached  my  first  ser- 
mon ;  and  thereby  began  a  work  which  I  felt  should 
end  only  with  my  life. 

This  was  in  the  fall  of  1871.  During  the  winter 
I  did  some  canvassing,  but  my  principal  work  was 
in  the  direction  of  the  ministry.  Elder  Willis,  of 
Philadelphia,  accepted  a  call  from  the  Baptist 
church  of  Danville  about  this  time,  and  immedi- 
ately began  a  protracted  meeting,  in  which  work 
I  rendered  him  what  assistance  I  could.  This  was 
a  very  precious  meeting,  and  resulted  in  some  sixty 
or  more  accessions  to  the  church. 


334  THE   LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

WESTWARD. 

Some  moutlis  before  this  I  had  commenced  a 
correspondence  with  an  uncle  in  the  West,  whom 
I  had  not  seen  since  I  was  eight  years  of  age. 
This  correspondence  resulted  in  an  invitation  to 
visit  his  home,  in  Ohio.  A  visit  was  promised,  but 
was  deferred  from  time  to  time.  Finally,  in  the 
spring  of  1873,  I  made  my  preparations  for  a  jour- 
ney and  visit  to  the  West.  A  ride  of  seven  hun- 
dred miles  brought  me,  one  dark  midnight  in  the 
month  of  March,  to  Bradford  Junction,  Ohio.  In 
the  morning,  greatly  to  my  disappointment,  I  learn- 
ed that  my  uncle  lived  seven  miles  in  the  country. 
The  roads  were  fearfully  bad.  But  I  finally  ob- 
tained a  conve3"ance;  and  after  a  really  desperate 
journey  of  several  tedious  hours  I  was  at  my  uncle's 
door.  The  home  was  a  plain  log-house;  and  the 
style  of  living  with  the  occupants  was  much  after 
that  usual  to  squatters  in  the  farther  West.  I  was 
not  then  expected;  nor  did  they  know  of  my  blind- 


WESTWARD.  335 

ness;  but  with  all  this  my  uncle  recognized  me  at 
once,  and  the  family  cordially  welcomed  me  to 
their  home.  This  uucle  was  Il^athan  Martin,  the 
brother  of  my  own  mother.  They  had  four  chil- 
dren. 

When  the  first  day  had  pleasantly  passed,  and 
the  time  for  retirement  had  come,  I  wondered  if 
the  family  were  disciples  of  Christ,  or  if  anythin^^ 
would  be  said  of  worship.  Like  many  anotlier 
professed  Christian,  I  had  deferred  mention  of  re- 
ligious matters  until  nearly  all  other  c^uestions  had 
been  canvassed.  I  finally  said,  "Do  you  profess 
to  be  Christians  here?"  to  which  my  uncle  replied, 
"  We  were  once  churcji-members,  but  have  not 
been  for  some  years."  Too  many  in  going  from 
their  eastern  to  their  western  home  fail  to  carry 
with  them  the  tokens  of  their  profession.  Thus 
many  are  unrecognized  as  Christians  at  first,  and 
from  timidity  and  shame  continue  long  years  in 
the  darkness  of  moral  death.  Only  by  a  pul>lic 
confession  of  Christ,  however,  can  we  share  the 
sweet  joys  of  the  Christian  life.  This  is  one  glory 
of  our  religion.  It  admits  of  no  selfishness.  What 
Byron  has  happily  said  of  general  joy  is  specially 
true  of  the  ecstacy  of  the  Christian  life. 

"  He  who  true  joj  would  wiu 
Must  share  it;  happiness  is  born  twin." 

A  minister  was  once  preaching  in  an  lUinoia 


336  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER    DAYS. 

school-liouse,  and  at  the  close  of  the  .seriiiou  saki,  "  I 
will  not  now  leave  another  appointment,  but  will, 
perhaps,  come  again  some  time.''  After  the  ben- 
ediction a  detective,  a  gentleman  of  large  intelli- 
gence, but  of  careless  life,  stepped  excitedly  to  the 
minister  and  said,  "  Please,  sir,  leave  another  ap- 
pointment; I  see  every  sign  of  a  revival."  The 
minister  was  astonished  that  the  strange  request 
should  come  from  so  stramre  a  man,  and  in  so 
strange  a  manner.  He  left  the  appointment,  and 
shortly  a  great  work  followed,  in  which  two  of 
the  detective's  children  shared,  jalthough  he  re- 
mained largely  unmoved.  In  the  East  he  had 
been  a  class- leader  in  the  Methodist  Episcopal 
Church.  He  carried  his  letter  of  commendation 
to  the  West,  but  had  never  used  it,  nor  confessed 
himself  a  Christian  in  profession.  Eternity,  to 
such  a  man,  will  be  full  of  regrets  at  such  a  course, 
although  he  may  himself  be  finally  saved,  "  so  as 
by  fire." 

I  finally  suggested  family  prayer,  which  I  con- 
ducted, and  in  which  the  family  heartily  joined. 
This  habit  I  continued  while  I  remained  with  them  ; 
and  the  old  altar  thus  re-erected  has  never  since 
been  alloAved  to  fall,  nor  the  fire  thereon  to  go  out. 
What  a  beautiful  custom  this  is,  and  how  evidently 
is  it  of  divine  establishment.  To  call  the  family 
about  the  altar  of  prayer  for  the  daily  consecration. 


WESTWARD,  837 

and  there  to  ofier  praise  and  seek  counsel  before 
the  Lord,  is  a  scene  which  angels  must  stop  in  si- 
lence and  reverence  to  admire.  If  the  angels  are 
about  us,  as  I  can  not  but  believe, — for,  though 
unseen,  they  encamped  around  about  Israel, — it 
seems  to  me  that  the  chief  and  most  delightsome 
places  of  congregating  must  be  by  the  altar  of 
family  devotion.  Reader,  is  it  w^ithin  your  prov- 
ince to  establish  such  an  altar?  Oh,  neglect  it  not; 
aul  maintain  it  while  you  live.  There  should  be 
a"i  altar  in  every  home  in  all  the  land.  But  alas! 
in  many  a  Christian  home  the  voice  is  not-  heard 
at  the  a'tar,  nor  the  fires  enkindled  thereon. 

A  few  days  after  my  arrival  w^e  attended  a  tem- 
perance lecture,  given  by  a  Quaker  speaker,  at  the 
school-house  near  by.  A  large  crowd  had  gath- 
ered; the  talk  was  good,  and  withal  I  much  enjoy- 
ed the  meeting.  Learning  on  the  way  home  that 
there  was  no  church-service  in  the  neighborhood, 
I  proposed  to  announce  one  for  preaching.  This 
proposition  met  with  great  favor  from  my  uncle 
and  his  family,  and  at  once  the  notice  was  made 
through  the  schools.  The  attendance  was  large, 
the  attention  satisfactory,  and  another  appointment 
was  made.  This  was  followed  by  others,  as  often. 
as  four  or  five  times  a  week.  These  meetings  con- 
tinued for  some  three  months,  until  June.  I  now" 
began  to  feel  a  longing  for  home,  and  I  deter- 

22 


338"  THE    LIGUT    OF    OTHER    DAYS. 

mined  to  go  back  to  my  father's  liouse.  In  due  time 
1  arrived,  and  found  all  well  and  in  usual  happi- 
ness. I  spent  the  summer  delightfully  among  my 
friends,  and  the  season  was  gone  long- before  I  de- 
sired. 

The  last  of  August  was  arriving;  and  many  let- 
ters from  the  West  imploring  me  to  return  having 
been  received,  I  determined  on  a  second  visit  to 
Ohio.  On  the  way,  however,  I  felt  that  I  must 
take  in  the  town  of  Williamsport,  and  thus  see  my 
motherly  sister  Mrs.  Homet,  my  pastor,  and  other 
dear  friends.  Indeed,  I  was  to  meet  one  on  whose 
presence  I  had  not  counted,  and.  yet  the  one  for 
whom  I  had  begun  to  feel  a  great  and  special-  want. 
Some  changes  had  transpired  in  the  home  of  Mrs. 
Homet;  but  it  was  yet  the  dear  old  home  as  ever. 
During  the  day  of  my  arrival  I  became  somewhat 
acquainted  with  a  Miss  M.,  a  lady  in  whom  I  aft- 
erward became  deeply  interested.  My  brief  visit 
■was  soon  and  pleasantly  passed ;  but  it  was  one 
not  soon  to  be  forgotten.  I  was  being  subjected 
to  impressions  which  had  much  to  do  with  my 
future.  In  a  word,  I  was  in  love.  Already  the 
mystic  fires  were  burning  upon  the  altar  of  my 
heart.  Like  many  another  lover,  I  was  going  it 
blind;  and  yet  I  knew  that  love  would  not  see 
even  though  it  had  eyes.  Why,  then,  was- not  I 
as  well  off  asthe  average?     However,  I  supposed 


WESTWARD.  339 

that  this  flame  would  soon  die  out  iu  my  heart; 
^nd  when  the  hour  of  parting  came  I  accepted  it 
as  really  final. 

Once  more  I  was  en  route  for  the  West,  where 
on  my  arrival  I  found  the  Sabbath-school  I  "had 
left  still  flourishing,  and  the  weekly  prayer-meet- 
ing, established  after  my  leaving,  still  maintained 
with  livino-  and  o-rowino^interest. 

A  young  sister  who  had  experienced  hope  iu  our 
winter's  meeting  was  still  rejoicing  in  her  new- 
found Savior,  wliile  everywhere  the  signs  of  a  com- 
ing harvest  from  the  late  sowing  were  apparent. 
On  my  return  she  expressed  a' desire  for  "burial 
with  Christ  by  baptism."  Anticipating  that  such 
demands  would  be  made,  I  had  presented  the  mat- 
ter to  the  church  at  Williamsport  when  I  was  there. 
They  hacl  authorized  me,  if  circumstances  seemed 
to  warrant,  to  baptize  any  person  giving  evidence 
of  Ctiristian  acceptance.  This  request  being'made 
by  the  above  sister,  Cornelia  Elam,  on  the  second 
Sunday  of  October,  1874,  I  buried  her  in  baptism. 
This  was  my  first  baptismal  service;  and  as  it  was 
conducted  by  a  blind  man,  it  awakened  a  great  in- 
terest and  an  extended  curiosity.  For  miles  around 
the  farmers  were  coming  early  to  the  baptismal 
"waters;  and  though  the  crowd  was  large,  yet  it 
was  respectful  and  silent.  The  place  of  our  bap- 
tism was  a  point  on  the  Stillwater,  overlooked  by 


340  THE   LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS 

a  bold  bluff  on  the  west.     The  situation  was  de- 
lightful, and  the  view  all  that  could  be  wished. 

Two  weeks  later  we  repaired  to  the  same  place 
again,  when  I  baptized  my  cousin,  Miss  Anna 
Martin.  Thus  I  was  reaping  some  of  the  fruits  of 
the  spring-time  sowing,  realizing  that  in  truth  if 
the  bread  was  cast  upon  the  waters  it  should  be 
gathered  again  after  many  days.  This  may  not 
always  be  realized,  even  as  soon  as  in  my  case. 
Many  a  time  the  hand  that  sows  is  crumbling  back 
to  dust  before  the  harvest-hour  is  reached.  Thus 
sometimes  "  one  soweth,  and  another  reapeth,"  and 
even  that  whereon  he  had  bestowed  no  labor.  But 
"he  that  soweth  and  he  that  reapeth"  are  all  of 
one;  and  it  matters  little  which  part  each  may  take. 
"We  should  not  fail  to  remember  that  we  are  all 
sowers  and  reapers.  As  sowers,  we  should  seek 
the  word  for  our  seed  and  the  heart  for  our  field; 
while  as  reapers,  we  should  gather  into  the  heaven- 
ly garner.  Montgomery,  with  his  eye  on  Ecclesi- 
astes  xi.  6,  has  beautifully  sung : 

"  Sow  in  the  morn  thy  seed, 
At  eve  hold  not  th}-  hand; 
To  doubt  and  fear  give  thou  no  heed, 
Broadcast  it  o'er  the  land. 

'Beside  all  waters  sow; 

The  highway  furrows  stock  : 
Drop  it  where  thorns  and  thistles  grow,- 
Drop  it  upon  the  rock. 


WESTWARD.  841 

*'  THen  duly  stall  appear, 

In  verdure,  beauty,  strengtli, 
The  tender  blade,  the  stalk,  the  ear, 
And  the  full  corn  at  length. 

"Thou  canst  not  toil  in  vain; 

Cold,  heat,  and  moist,  and  dry, 
Shall  foster  and  mature  the  grain 
For  garners  in  the  sky." 

In  November  I  began  a  series  of  meetings  at 
the  old  scbool-house  known  as  tbe  "Buckeye," 
where  I  had  been  continuously  preaching,  and 
ivhere  •  our  Sabbath-school  and  prayer-meetings 
were  held.  For  three  weeks  they  continued  with- 
out interruption,  aud  then  with  more  or  less  fre- 
quency until  midwinter.  I  then  determined  to  go 
East  again  to  attend  to  two  important  matters  of 
business.  Up  to  this  time  ten  or  twelve  had  been 
forward  for  prayers,  some  of  whom  had  been  hope- 
fully converted  God 


■342  THE    LIGHT   OF   OTHER  DAYS. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

MARRIAGE,  ORDINATION,  HOME  IN  THE  WEST. 

I  proceeded  to  Philadelphia  by  way  of  Williams- 
port,  where,  on  January  4th,  1875,  I  was  married 
to  Miss  M.,  as  had  been  before  arranged.  Follow- 
ing this  event  we  returned  to  Williamsport,  where 
the  church  was  called  together  to  decide  on  my 
application  for  ordination.  After  a  sermon  from  the 
writer,  the  church,  by  a  unanimous  voice,  decided 
to  call  a  council  of  ordination.  The  council  came 
promptly  on  call;  and  a^ter  the  statement  of  the 
pastor,  covering  my  standing  and  ability  as  a  work- 
man, I  was  called  on  for  my  experience  both  as  a 
Christian  man  and  a  minister.  This  was  followed 
bv  a  general  examination,  coveriner  Bible  doctrine 
and  the  usual  teachings  of  the  Baptist  Church.  I 
then  retired,  and  the  council  decided  on  my  ordi- 
nation, which  transpired  the  same  afternoon.  The 
occasion  was  one  of  profound  solemnity  to  me.  I 
felt  that  I  had  before  been  called  of  God ;  but  now 
God's  called  men,  as  by  his  appointment  and  in 


MARRIAGE,  ORDINATION,  HOME  IN  THE  WEST.     343 

his  established  way,  were  to  participate  in  my 
further  consecration  to  the  holy  work  of  the  min- 
istry. I  was  to  be  placed  more  fully  upon  the 
altar,  with  most  solemn  ceremonies.  Though  I 
had  consecrated  myself  to  the  work,  yet  now  I 
felt  that  I  was  receiving  a  second  consecration. 
There  was  a  cloud  of  witnesses,  both  below  and 
above;  and  their  mutual  fellowship  and  united 
benedictions  were  being  extended  to  me.  With 
the  rest,  there  was  the  new  anointing  of  the  Holy 
Ghost;  for  God  was  present  with  us  to  receive  and 
bless  the  offering. 

Following  my  ordination  we  started  at  once  for 
our  home  in  Ohio,  from  which  I  had  been  absent 
but  two  weeks.  I  at  once  resumed  my  meetings, 
and  soon  baptized,  at  the  same  old  consecrated 
spot,  four  candidates,  and  shortly  after  three  more, 
one  of  whom  was  my  own  wife. 

In  July  the  marriage  of  my  cousin.  Miss  Anna 
Martin,  to  Allen  Kephart,  transpired.  This  was 
my  first  wedding.  On  the  same  day  we  organized 
the  fruits  of  our  revival  into  the  Pleasant  Hill 
Baptist  Church.  In  the  fall  of  this  year  the  church 
lost  two  of  its  valuable  members  by  death.  The 
first  was  Mrs.  Martha  Blake,  a  lady  of  rare  Chris- 
tian worth,  both  to  the  neighborhood  and  the 
church.  She,  however,  was  ripe  for  the  heavenly 
garner,  and  at  death  was  certainly  greeted  by  the 


344  TUE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

angels.  Miss  Cornelia  Elam,  my  first  candidate 
for  baptism,  was  at  the  above  funeral  in  apparent 
perfect  health,  but  in  a  few  weeks  was  herself  a 
tenant  of  the  grave.  She  regretted  death,  most 
of  all  because  of  her  invalid  sister,  for  whom  in 
her  dependence  she  cared  with  almost  angelic  de- 
votion. When  the  summons  came,  however,  she 
was  willing  to  go.  Death  had  no  sting  for  her, 
and  she  feared  not  to  answer  the  call.  The  end- 
less triumph  had  begun  below;  and  the  sweet  un- 
foldings  of  her  life  were  a  halo  of  glory  to  the 
dying  soul.  The  evening  star  was  to  have  an  early 
setting,  but  no  cloud  was  to  obscure  its  final  glory. 
The  morning  star  had  come  up  as  a  harbinger,  and 
the  sun  of  a  beautiful,  blissful  existence  had  risen 
upon  her  soul. 

Thus  passed  away  from  earth  my  first  Christian 
convert  and  my  first  baptismal  candidate.  If  my  life 
has  yielded  no  other  fruit  than  this,  yet  shall  I  ever 
feel  that  I  have  not  labored  in  vain.  To  start,  or  even 
to  help  in  starting  one  soul  in  the  pathway  of  endless 
life,  is  a  service  for  which  one  can  altbrd  to  pass  by  the 
rough  way  of  the  mortal  life.  If  I  may  thus  have 
blessed  one,  I  am  glad  that  I  was  born,  even  though 
in  darkness  I  must  grope  my  way  to  the  end. 
Hereafter  I  shall  see;  and  in  the  firmament  of 
glory  this  dear  sister  shall  shine  as  a  star  forever 
and  ever.     As  the  o'olden  sunset  reflected  its  streams 


MAKEIAGE,  ORDINATION,  HOME  IN  THE  WEST.     345 

of  "beautiful  light  upon  the  earth,  that  mortals 
might  see  the  open  gates  by  which  it  entered  the 
new  world  beyond,  we  gave  our  sister  back  to  the 
valley  out  of  which,  in  the  physical,  she  had  come. 
But  only  in  the  physical  did  we  inter  her  there. 
The  spirit  had  returned  to  the  God  who  gave  it 
when  the  death-angel  called  her  name. 

We  linger  a  few  moments  by  her  grave ;  and 
even  while  the  valley  clods  fall  heavily  upon  the 
casket  hope  animates  our  hearts.  Above  these 
sounds  we  hear  the  Savior  say,  "  I  am  the  resur- 
rection and  the  life :  he  that  believeth  in  me,  though 
he  were  dead,  yet  shall  he  live."  And  to  the  church 
and  friends  could  we  say,  "  Thy  sister  shall  rise 
again;  for  the  dead,  both  small  and  great,  shall 
stand  before  God."     Bonar  says : 

"  Soon  shall  the  trump  of  God 
Give  out  the  welcome  sound 
That  shakes  death's  silent  chamber-walls, 
And  breaks  the  turf-sealed  ground." 

Here  we  end  the  story  of  our  life ;  not  with  hope" 
buried,  but  with  the  thought  and  expectation  of 
the  resurrection  near. 


846  THE   LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 


CHAPTER  XLIIl. 

FAREWELL    REFLECTIONS. 

Our  story  has  been  told  in  great  weakness,  and 
with  commingled  grief  and  joy.  We  have  passed 
through  dark  valleys;  and  anon. the  mountain-tops 
have  been  ablaze  with  brightness  before  us,  and 
we  have  placed  our  feet  thereon.  The  way,  even 
to  me,  has  been  one  more  of  light  and  triumph 
than  of  shadows  and  defeats.  I  would  not  wish 
to  walk  the  way  again,  nor  to  descend  into  the 
dark,  deep  caverns  of  the  route ;  and  yet  if  I  should, 
it  would  be  with  a  livelier  hope  of  gaining  the  hill- 
top beyond.  The  valley  clouds  have  never  wholly 
covered  me;  nor  have  I  ever  given  over  my  soul 
entirely  to  despair.  The  light  has  ever  shone, 
though  dim  and  distant;  and  the  far-ofl'  goal  has 
always  been  reached  in  good  time.  Even  when 
sight  was  gone,  welcome  hands  were  found  to  guide 
my  feet  and  hearts  of  sympathy  to  soothe  my 
sorrow.  I  could  hardly  aftbrd  to  part  with  any 
page  of  my  strange  experience;  for  from  all  I 
have  gathered  fruit  that  has  been  both  refreshing 
to  the  soul  and  grateful  to  the  taste. 


FAREWELL    REFLECTIONS.  o-tT 

This  world  is  one  of  native  darkness.  ITot  one 
ray  of  light  belongs  inherently  to  it.  It  is  one 
deep,  fathomless  sea  of  gloom.  Light  comes,  but 
it  is  from  other  worlds.  The  sun  illuminates  our 
path  by  day ;  the  moon  and  stars  by  night.  Thus, 
though  we  are  born  from  darkness  into  darkness, 
yet  the  light  has  preceded  us,  and,  like  a  lantern,  is 
.continually  illuminating  the  way  a  few  steps  before 
us  as  we  move  onward  and  forward.  There  are 
moral  lights  no  less  than  physical,  and  together 
they  come  from  the  without,  the  beyond,  the  un- 
seen, and  the  blissful  above.  oSTot  the  light  of  daj 
nor  that  of  night,  not  the  physical  nor  the  spirit- 
ual illumination  could  we  spare.  But  as  the  world's 
natural  gloom  is  illuminated  by  a  foreign  and  celes- 
tial light,  so  too  is  the  soul's  deep  moral  gloom  as 
evidently  thus  illuminated.  The  night  of  darkness 
is  deep  and  impenetrable  with  both.  As  well  blow- 
out the  sun  and  all  the  stars,  and  depend  ever  and 
only  on  the  flickering  candle,  as  in  the  mere  light 
of  human  intelligence.  "It  is  not  in  man  that' 
Avalketh  to  direct  his  steps; "  "  but  there  is  a  spirit 
in  man :  and  the  inspiration  of  the  Almighty  giv 
eth  them  understanding."  In  the  spiritual  world, 
we  who  are  in  the  mortal  form  have  ten  thousand 
aids.  Some  are  as  brilliant  suns,  and  some  appear 
as  but  feeble,  flickering  stars;  but  with  none  can 
we  dispense.     Every  ray  of  light  that  falls  athwaii;. 


348  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER   DAYS. 

our  way  is  a  needed  ray,  and  will  make  brighter 
and  more  lovely  our  path.  He  that  said,  "Let 
there  be  light,"  will  not  leave  us  in  the  darkness ; 
and  in  the  apparent  gloom  the  Master  himself  will 
be  very  near. 

Before  closing  this  book  there  are  a  few  things 
in  my  life  which  I  would  gladly  emphasize.  This 
done,  and  I  shall  take  my  leave  of  the  reader. 

The  vjandering  spirit,  or  the  desire  for  adventure, 
was  the  ruling  and  ruining  element  of  my  early 
life.  It  led  me  as  a  child  to  the  battle-field,  and 
as  a  youth  away  from  home  and  out  upon  the 
water-wave  of  the  sea.  It  brought  me  much  sor- 
row and  immeasurable  sufiering,  and  tipped  to  my 
lips  at  last  the  bitter  dregs  of  the  blackness  of 
darkness  in  life-long  blindness.  Did  joy  come,  it 
was  only  resurrection-joy,  for  I  was  often  deeply 
buried  by  cruel  hands  and  untoward  circumstances. 
But  what  infused  into  my  heart  this  spirit  so  fruit- 
ful of  sorrow  and  affliction  ?  It  was  the  poison  of 
light  literature,  after  which  my  soul  went  out  as 
the  bee  for  its  honey-bower.  "Will  my  younger 
readers  be  warned  in  time,  and  give  not  the  life  to 
romance  and  fiction?  Even  the  Sabbath-school  is 
not  entirely  guiltless  in  this  direction,  but  is  doing 
a  fearful  share  in  poisoning  the  soul  of  society. 
Some  of  its  own  literature  is  actually  pernicious,  in 
that  it  is  creatine:  cravinc^s  that  will  be   satisfied 


FAREWELL    REFLECTIONS.  349^ 

only  by  tlie  cup  of  moral  death.  Books  of  a  poi- 
sonous spirit  are  bought  by  the  bushel,  and  are 
greedily  devoured  by  the  armfuls.  It  is  question- 
able if  some  and  many  of  our  Sabbath-schools 
would  not  be  even  better  off  if  their  library  keys 
were  lost.  That  some  good  lessons  are  inculcated 
in  the  more  acceptable  forms  of  literature,  we 
make  no  question;  but  it  is  much  as  the  sugar  that 
serves  as  a  coating  for  the  bitter,  nauseating  pilL 
-A  censor  for  the  press  we  would  not  have,  for 
older  heads  may  judge  and  wisely  choose;  but  for 
the  Sabbath-school  literature  of  the  day  we  would 
have  a  college  of  the  most  thoroughly  competent 
censors  for  the  sake  of  our  endangered  youth. 

The  reader  will  also  have  discovered  that  my 
early  nature  revealed  a  largely  religious  tendency. 
In  childhood  I  longed  to  be  a  Christian  ;  and  had  I 
been  surrounded  by  fervent,  religious  teachings  and 
teachers,  I  should  have  been  early  in  the  fold  of  the 
Shepherd.  There  I  would  have  been  safe  from 
many  of  those  influences  which  led  oif  and  down 
my  too  trusting  soul.  Even  the  man  of  strength 
and  experience  needs  the  watch-care  and  protection 
of  the  church.  Does  the  child  need  less  than  the 
man?  The  Sabbath-school,  and  even  the  home- 
circle  will  not  alone  answer  the  full  want  of  the 
child.  As  soon  as  he  can  be  awakened  to  a  sense 
of  his  moral  obligation  he  should  be  infolded  in 
the  bosom  of  the  church. 


S50  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER    DAYS. 

A  superintendent  in  Micliiy-an  was  tellins:  tlie 
cliildreu  that  they  should  go  to  Jesus,  and  rest  in 
the  arms  of  his  love,  when  a  little  child  went  forth 
from  her  seat,  land  taking  his  hand,  said,  "  Please, 
sir,  lead  me  to  Jesus.''  This  is  what  our  children 
"svant.  Nor  should  we  feel  safe  regarding  them  un- 
til we  answer  this  want  of  their  hearts. 

Spurgeon  remarks  that  during  his  London  min- 
istry of  the  more  than  2,700  members  he  had  re- 
ceived, several  hundred  were  children,  and  no  one 
that  he  has  been  obliged  to  expel  from  fellowship 
was  received  in  childhood. 

At  a  t-ecentNcAv  York  Methodist  Episcopal  con- 
ference, of  250  ministers,  the  youngest  conversion 
among  them  was  at  the  age  of  seven  years,  and 
the  oldest  at  twenty  years,  while  the  average  was 
fifteen  years.  !N"ot  only  is  it  possible  for  our  chil- 
dren to  be  converted  young;  but  it  is  ver}'  neces- 
sary, l)otli  for  their  comfort  and  safety. 

A  prince,  as  a  child,  was  manifesting  very  much 
concern  for  his  soul,  and  his  attendants  tried  to 
comfort  him  by  saying,  "  You  need  not  yet  give 
attention  to  these  things.  Wait  until  you  are 
older."  "Oh,"  said  he,  "  I  have  been  to  the  bury- 
ing-ground,  and  have  measured  some  of  the  graves  j 
and  I  find  them  even  shorter  than  I  am." 

A  Chicago  mother  took  her  two  little  girls, 
seven  and  nine  years  of  age',  to  Mr.  Moody's  meet- 


FAREWELL   REFLECTIONS.  851 

ing,  and  led  them  into  the  iuqaiiy-room,  where 
they  soon  found  peace  in  believing,  A  year  after 
the  mother,  with  these  children,  sailed  for  France  ; 
but  when  within  mid-ocean  the  Liverpool,  her  ves- 
sel, went  down.  She  was  saved,  but  her  two  chil- 
dren perished ;  yet  they  went  down  trusting  sweetly 
in  Jesus.  "It  seemed  to  me,"  said  the  mother, 
"  when  finally  saved  myself,  that  God  liad  permit- 
ted me  to  take  my  children  to  the  gates  of  heaven 
and  leave  them  there."  Truly,  we  can  not  too  soon 
welcome  the  children  to  the  fold. 

As  a  final  thought,  I  feel  safe  in  insisting  that 
my  life  has  been  singularly  filled  with  gracious 
providences.  "  Who  among  men,"  I  am  led  to  ex- 
claim, "has  been  more  his^hlv  favored  than  I." 
How  strangely  was  I  favored  upon  the  battle-field 
by  Lieutenant  McCoy !  Then,  as  soon  as  I  was  on 
the  boat' bound  for  Philadelphia,  what  a  friend  did 
I  find  in  Dr.  Hartshorn!  How  was  I  cared  for 
in  the  hospital,  by  the  nurses,  physicians,  and 
even  the  good  friends  of  the  city  of  Philadelphia  I 
"When  on'  board  the  Vincie,  bound  for  Rib  Janeiro, 
could  I  iiave  found  a  truer,  dearer  friend  than  Mr. 
Watson,  the  New  York  merchant?  See  how  his 
goodness,  or  rather  the  goodness  of  the  Lord 
through 'him,  followed  me  all  the  way  from  the 
day  of  my  landing  •  in  Rio  Jafieiro.  Did  he  not 
find  me  a  strong  friend  in  the  American-  consul? 


352  THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER    DAYS. 

Could  I  recall  his  name,  I  would  like  to  print  it 
in  letters  of  gold.  Could  a  child  of  sorrow  have 
found  a  more  blessed  home  than  that  oti'ered  by 
the  sisters  in  the  hospital  ?  In  sailing  home,  finally^ 
could  I  have  had  a  better,  truer  friend  than  Captain. 
Thomson,  of  Baltimore?  And  was  it  not  strange 
that  from  Mr.  Watson's  generosity  I  should  at 
that  moment  of  separation  at  Baltimore  have 
counted  a  hundred  dollars  into  my  own  hand? 
Welcomed  back  to  the  Episcopal  Hospital  in  Phil- 
adelphia, how  friends  gathered  about  me,  and  what 
sweet  words  of  cheer  greeted  my  ear.  Then,  why 
should  I  have  interested  strange  physicians  in  my 
case,  and  thus  have  gained  admittance  to  the  In-, 
stitution  for  the  Instruction  of  the  Blind  before 
my  proper  time?  How  wonderful,  too,  was  the 
friendship  of  Mr.  Yandersloot,  and  what  a  bless- 
ing he  proved  to  me  in  his  kindness  and  Christian 
love !  Truly  I  must  say,  "  God  hath  led  me  all  the 
way."  I  see  clearly  the  foul  blotches  on  the  tablet 
of  human  character;  yet  I  see  great  good  in  the 
human  heart ;  and  with  pride  I  confess  I  have  great 
faith  in  humanity.  I  wonder  not  that  angels  hover 
over  man  with  interest,  nor  that  Jesus  came  down 
to  redeem  a  wicked  and  wretched  world. 

M.  Angelo  stopped  by  a  piece  of  marble  imbed- 
ded in  the  mud  and  rubbish  of  an  Italian  city  and 
sought  to  recover  it.     In  his  humble  endeavor  he 


FAREWELL    REFLECTIONS.  353 

was  remonstrated  with.  His  defense  was,  "  I  see 
an  angel  in  the  marble,  and  with  my  chisel  I  would 
let  it  out."  The  chisel  of  God's  truth  brought  to 
bear  on  the  human  heart  will  transform  it  into  a 
living  angel  of  endless  life.  May  our  hands  be 
ever  ready  to  use  the  ohisel. 


BX9878.8  .564 

The  light  of  other  days :  or,  Passing 

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1    1012  00047  2979 


